3 times soul stealing

Chapter 1

Prologue to Part One of "Three Times of Soul Stealing"

We sincerely thank San Francisco Police Department homicide detective Holly Pera and her partner Joe Toomey for their daily battles of wits against all sorts of criminals, while we merely offer theoretical advice. We also thank them for introducing us to Dino Zografors of the Special Weapons and Countermeasures Unit, who gave us a real understanding of the terrifying time bomb. We further thank Berkeley Police Department Sergeant Joe Sans and Officer Steve Engler (retired), who personally experienced the turbulent events of the 1960s and spent hours telling us about the “People’s Republic of Berkeley” ① The People’s Republic of Berkeley: Berkeley is a university town in the San Francisco Bay Area of Northern California, bordered by Oakland to the south and Tilden Regional Park to the east. It is home to renowned schools and institutions such as the University of California, Berkeley, Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory, Lawrence Science Building, and the Institute of Mathematical Sciences. The Berkeley campus is the birthplace of the American “free speech movement.” In the 1960s, Berkeley witnessed massive student demonstrations against the Vietnam War. The city's reputation for strong freedom of speech, often jokingly referred to as the "People's Republic of Berkeley," reveals the immense destructive power of this monstrous entity and the fervent pursuit of its dreams.

We also deeply mourn the loss of Chuck Zion, a famous dog who heroically died in the World Trade Center disaster on September 11, 2001.

The first part of "The Third Time" features a castle set against a blue sky.

One April morning, the sky was clear, the air was fresh, and a languid spring feeling permeated the tranquil atmosphere. This day also marked the beginning of a nightmarish week in my life.

I jogged slowly down the slope along the bay, followed by my Border Collie. ① Border Collie: A medium-sized, well-bred sheepdog originating from England.

②Newfoundland Retriever: A type of hunting dog with the habit of bringing back prey to its owner.

Martha. This is also my routine on Sunday mornings—get up early, put my dog in the front seat of my Blazer, drive to Mason Castle, and from there take her for a three-mile jog to the bridge and back. It gives me some comfort, a sense that I can still manage to maintain a reasonably good figure at thirty-six.

That morning, my friend Jill came running with me. She was going to take her Newfoundland Hunting Otis for a spin, or at least that's what she said.

Perhaps she wanted to get some exercise to warm up for her future mountain bike climb of Mount Tamalpes, or whatever she called a really exciting sport.

It's hard to believe that Jill had just suffered a miscarriage five months ago. Look at her now, still so slim, she's regained her former beauty.

“Hey, how was last night?” she asked, glancing sideways as she ran. “People outside are saying Lindsay’s on a date.” “You could say that…” I replied, my eyes fixed on the castle silhouetted against the blue sky. We were running, but the castle seemed to move very slowly. “You could also say Baghdad is a resort.” She shrank back. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” All the way, my mind was filled with the annoying image of Franklin Frantley, the “asset packaging and sale” king. I called him that because he liked to target those struggling online company owners who couldn’t afford their luxury cars, watches, and installment loans. For the past two months, whenever Franklin came to the police station, he would always come to my office and loiter. Eventually, I got so annoyed that I invited him to my house for dinner on Saturday nights (but then he changed his mind and didn’t come, so I had to put the short ribs I was simmering in red wine in the refrigerator).

“He stood me up,” I said, slowing my pace. “Don’t ask anymore, I won’t say anything more.” We stopped at the top of Marina Green Square, and I called out, “My Mary Decker!”

My friend was jumping on his tiptoes, as if he still had energy and wanted to run another lap.

“I really don’t know how you can run so fast,” I said, hands on my hips, panting as I tried to catch my breath.

“My grandmother,” she shrugged and kicked her legs back, “started walking five miles every day when she was sixty. Now she’s ninety and still running around, often leaving us wondering where she is.” We both couldn’t help but laugh. It was heartwarming to see Jill back to her old mischievous self and hear her laughing out loud again.

“How about we grab a coffee?” I asked. “Martha’ll pay.” “No. Steve’s flying back from Chicago. He wants to get home, change, and head straight to the Legion of Honor to see the Dean Friedrich exhibit. You know what that little dog looks like if he doesn’t get to see it.” I frowned. “It’s hard for me to imagine Steve as a little dog.” Jill nodded, took off her sweater, and raised her arms.

“Jill,” I asked in surprise, my mouth agape, “what’s going on?” There were several small, dark lumps, about the size of a finger, on the back strap of her sports bra inside her underwear.

She tossed her sweater over her shoulder, looking a little embarrassed. "I accidentally hurt myself in the shower," she said. "You don't need to make a fuss." She blinked as she spoke.

I nodded, but the bruises and bumps still made me uneasy. "You really don't want to have a cup of coffee before you leave?" I asked.

“No…you know El Exeggent’s temper. If I’m five minutes late, he’ll never forget it.” She whistled, beckoning Otis to start running back to the parking lot. She waved to me. “See you in the office later.” “So, how are you?” I crouched down and hugged Martha. “Looks like you want a coffee.” I tugged at its leash and trotted towards the Starbucks on Chestnut Street.

Marina has always been one of my favorite neighborhoods. The winding streets, the brightly colored and well-maintained townhouses, the warm families living there, the occasional chirping of seagulls, and the gentle sea breeze blowing in from the beach.

As I walked through the Alhambra, my gaze inadvertently drifted past a beautiful three-story house. I had often seen it when passing by before, admiring its exquisite elegance. The hand-carved wooden lattice windows and the terracotta tile roof evoked the Grand Canal. A car drove by, and I grabbed Masha's leash.

That's the impression this neighborhood left on me at the time. The whole neighborhood was gradually waking up. A red-haired kid wearing a short-sleeved shirt with the word FUBU printed on it was practicing skateboarding. A woman in overalls was hurrying around the corner with a bag of clothes in her hand.

“Come on, Martha,” I tugged the rope. “I smell coffee.” Just then, the little house with the terracotta tile roof roared to life and burst into flames. I mean, it felt like San Francisco had suddenly turned into Beirut.

Part 1 of "Three Times Soul Stealing": Even in death, I refuse to endure this torture of being roasted alive.

"Oh my God!" I screamed, panting, as a wave of heat mixed with debris hit me in the face, the huge blast almost knocking me to the ground.

I turned and crouched down, shielding Martha with my arms as the scorching flames from the explosion violently assaulted me. A few seconds later, I struggled to my feet. My God… it was unbelievable. The little house that I had just been so envious of was now a pile of rubble, with flames shooting out of the broken windows and walls on the second floor.

At that moment, I realized there might still be people inside.

I tied Martha to the lamppost. Flames danced fifty yards away. I ran across the street and rushed into the small, smoke-filled house. The second floor had been blown up. There was no chance of survival for anyone inside.

I fumbled in my back pocket for my phone and frantically pressed the 911 button. “This is Officer Lindsay Boxer of the San Francisco Police Department, badge number 2-7-2-1. An explosion has occurred at the corner of Alhambra and Pierce Streets. It’s a residential explosion. There may be injuries. Full ambulance and fire support is required. Get moving!” I hung up. I was supposed to stay put, but if there were people inside, this could be a matter of life and death. I pulled off my sweater and loosely covered my face. “Oh my God, Lindsay,” I yelled, holding my breath.

Then, I groped my way into the house engulfed in flames.

"Is anyone there?" I shouted, and thick smoke immediately filled my mouth and nostrils, choking me and making it hard to breathe. The scorching heat burned my eyes and cheeks, and even though my sweater covered my face, it still stung when I slightly opened my eyes. A large piece of burning plasterboard hung in front of me.

"I'm a policeman!" I shouted again. "Is anyone there?" Thick smoke churned in my chest like a sharp razor. Flames rolled in, and huge crackling explosions engulfed everything. I suddenly understood why people trapped in flames in high-rise buildings would rather jump to their deaths than endure this torture of being roasted alive.

I covered my eyes with my hands and slowly moved forward through the thick smoke and billowing waves. I shouted again with all my might, "Is anyone inside?"

I could go no further. The flames had licked away my eyebrows. I felt like I would be engulfed by the flames at any moment and perish in the inferno.

I turned around and ran towards the light and coolness behind me. Suddenly, I saw two blurry human figures, the bodies of a woman and a man. They were clearly dead; their clothes were burning fiercely.

I stopped, feeling nauseous. I couldn't help them.

Then I heard a cry that sounded like someone was being choked. I didn't know if it was just my imagination. I stopped and tried to make out the crackling of the flames. My face was burning with an unbearable pain from the intense heat.

I heard that sound again. It wasn't a hallucination; I couldn't be wrong.

Someone is shouting.

The first part of "The Three Souls" features a dilapidated hut.

I took a deep breath and plunged back into the small house, which was already teetering on the brink of collapse from the fire. "Where are you?" I shouted with all my might. I stumbled and staggered through the gaps in the flames. My heart clenched with fear, not only for the person screaming inside, but also for myself, who would be engulfed by the fire.

I heard the shouts again. The sounds were faint, a groan coming from somewhere at the back of the house. "I'm coming!" I yelled, running straight towards the sound. To my left, a crossbeam had collapsed. The further I went, the more dangerous it would become.

I saw a hallway, and I felt that the sound was coming from there. The roof above the hallway had cracked and looked like it was about to collapse. Above the floor was where the second floor used to be.

"I'm a police officer!" I shouted. "Where are you?" There was no response.

Then I heard shouts again. This time they were much closer. I shielded my face with my arms and squeezed into the hallway. Quick, Lindsay… just a few more steps in.

I squeezed through a door billowing smoke. Good heavens, it was a children's bedroom. Judging from the state of the room...

A bed lay on its side against the wall. The fire had charred it black. I screamed, and then I heard that sound again. This time, the sound was muffled, accompanied by faint coughing.

The bed frame was scorching hot from the fire, and I managed to move the bed a little away from the wall. Oh my god… I vaguely saw a child's face.

It's a child. Probably around ten years old.

The child coughed and cried, unable to speak. His little house was almost completely buried in the rubble. We couldn't wait any longer; the thick smoke alone could suffocate us.

“I’ll get you out of here,” I reassured him. I squeezed myself into the gap between the wall and the bed, and with all my might, pushed the bed away from the wall. I grabbed the child’s shoulders, silently praying that I wouldn’t hurt him.

I led the child slowly through the gaps in the flames. Everywhere was billowing black smoke and scorching heat, making it hard to breathe. I saw some light in one direction, probably where I had just come from, but I wasn't sure.

I coughed incessantly from the fumes, and the child clung tightly to me. "Mommy, Mommy," he cried. I squeezed his hand tightly; I wanted him to know I wouldn't let him burn to death.

I shouted ahead, hoping to hear an answer. "Is anyone up ahead?" "Yes," I heard a voice coming through the thick smoke.

I made my way through the debris, trying to avoid the flames leaping from the burning objects. Then I saw the doorway I had come in through.

The sirens and shouts blended together. A figure groped ahead. It was a firefighter. He gently took the child from my arms. Another firefighter supported me with his arm. We groped our way out.

I went outside, my knees buckled, and I collapsed to the ground, greedily inhaling the fresh air. A paramedic carefully wrapped a blanket around me. Everyone seemed so kind and dedicated. I slumped down beside a fire truck on the roadside. A wave of nausea made me want to vomit, and I started to vomit.

Someone put an oxygen mask over my mouth, and I took a few deep breaths. A firefighter leaned down and asked, "Were you inside when the explosion happened?" "No," I shook my head. "I came in to rescue people." I felt like I was having trouble speaking and my thoughts were slow. I pulled out my badge and showed him my badge. "I'm Officer Boxer," I coughed, "from the homicide unit."

The first part of "Three Times of Soul Stealing" features a man and a woman.

“I’m alright,” I said, pulling away from the paramedic’s support. I went to the child; the paramedics had already placed him on a stretcher and secured him with straps, lifting him into the ambulance. The only movement on the child’s face was a blink. He was alive. My God, I saved his life.

Outside on the street, many people stood outside the police cordon, watching. I saw the red-haired kid who had been skateboarding earlier. The onlookers all wore expressions of fear.

Suddenly, I heard a dog barking. Oh my god, it was Masha, still tied to the lamppost by the roadside. I ran over and hugged her tightly, and Masha eagerly licked my cheek with her tongue.

A firefighter approached me; his helmet bore the insignia of a fire chief. “I’m Ed Norowski, fire chief. Are you alright?” “I think I’m alright,” I said, but I wasn’t so sure.

"You police officers are really brave, aren't you, officer, meddling in things that aren't your own?" Captain Norowski asked.

“I happened to be jogging by and saw the house explode with my own eyes. It looked like a gas explosion. I didn’t care about anything else at the time, I just did what I had to do.”

“Oh, officer, you did a great job.” The fire chief looked at the burned-out house. “But it doesn’t look like a gas explosion.” “I also saw two bodies inside.” “Yes,” Norowski nodded, “a man and a woman. There was also an adult in the back room on the ground floor.”

"That kid was lucky you got him out." "Yes," I said. A wave of fear washed over me. If it hadn't been for the gas explosion... Just then, I saw Warren Jacoby in the crowd. He was my number one officer, and he pushed his way through the crowd to my side. Warren was the kind of officer who did the "9 a.m. shift," which was what we called the Sunday morning shift after the weather warmed up.

Jacobi's face was round and chubby, with large bulges of flesh, like a ham. He never smiled, not even when telling jokes. His eyes were sunken in high brow bones, making it difficult for anyone to see a hint of surprise in them. At that moment, he silently stared at the hole blasted into the house at 210 Alhambra Street, then his gaze fell on me. I sat on the ground, covered in soot and blackened, panting heavily—Jacobi looked at me, a look of realization dawning on his face.

"Officer, are you alright?" "I think I'm fine." I struggled to stand up.

Jacobi glanced at the house, then back at me. “Looks like it’s been badly bombed. Even we experienced folks will be busy cleaning it up for a while, officer. I bet we’ll find something.” He stopped smiling. “Is there some Palestinian delegation here that we’re completely unaware of?” I told him everything I’d seen. There was no smoke, no fire; the second floor of the hut had suddenly been blown into the air.

“I’ve been doing this for 27 years, and experience tells me this isn’t a hot water boiler explosion,” Jacobi said.

"Did you know any houses here install boilers on the second floor?" "I didn't know any houses here installed boilers like that. Are you sure you're alright, and don't need to go to the hospital?" Jacobi leaned closer to me and asked. Ever since I got involved in the Combs case, Jacobi had been protecting me like an older brother. In front of me, he didn't even tell those dirty jokes anymore.

“No need to go, Warren, I’m fine.” I don’t know how I noticed it. It was lying quietly next to a car parked on the side of the road, and a thought flashed through my mind: Damn it, Lindsay, there’s definitely something wrong with that thing.

This horrific explosion just happened, and now this thing is lying on the roadside—it's bound to raise suspicion. But the story isn't over yet.

It was a red school backpack. The kind of backpack that countless schoolchildren carry, now lying quietly by the roadside.

I felt a wave of terror wash over me.

I've heard of cases of secondary explosions in the Middle East. If it was indeed a bomb that exploded inside the house, who can say that there isn't a bomb in this backpack? I widened my eyes and stared intently at the red backpack.

I reached out and grabbed Jacobi. "Warren, tell the people to retreat, now! Get the people back, quick!"