MYSTERIES, THRILLS & SPILLS

A Sampler

Featuring Selections From

Russell Blake – Jet

Douglas Dorow – The Ninth District

Shawn Hopkins – A Man Overboard

Larry Enright – A Cape May Diamond

Helen Hanson – 3 Lies

Jeff Bennington – Twisted Vengeance

Libby Fischer Hellmann – Easy Innocence

Claude Bouchard – Vigilante

JET - Russell Blake

Code name: Jet 

Twenty-eight-year-old Jet was once the Mossad's most lethal operative before faking her own death and burying that identity forever. 

But the past doesn't give up on its secrets easily.

When her new life on a tranquil island is shattered by a brutal attack, Jet must return to a clandestine existence of savagery and deception to save herself and those she loves. A gritty, unflinching roller-coaster of high-stakes twists and shocking turns, JET features a new breed of protagonist that breaks the mold.

Fans of Lisbeth Salander, SALT, and the Bourne trilogy will find themselves carried along at Lamborghini speed to a conclusion as jarring and surprising as the story's heroine is unconventional.

JET

Russell Blake

Copyright 2012 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact Books@RussellBlake.com.

Published by Reprobatio Ltd.

About the Author

Russell Blake lives full time on the Pacific coast of Mexico. He is the acclaimed author of the thrillers: Fatal Exchange, The Geronimo Breach, Zero Sum, The Delphi Chronicle trilogy (The Manuscript, The Tortoise and the Hare, and Phoenix Rising), King of Swords, Night of the Assassin, The Voynich Cypher, Revenge of the Assassin, Return of the Assassin, Silver Justice, JET, JET II – Betrayal, JET III – Vengeance and JET IV – Reckoning.

Non-fiction novels include the international bestseller An Angel With Fur (animal biography) and How To Sell A Gazillion eBooks (while drunk, high or incarcerated) – a joyfully vicious parody of all things writing and self-publishing related.

“Capt.” Russell enjoys writing, fishing, playing with his dogs, collecting and sampling tequila, and waging an ongoing battle against world domination by clowns.

Visit Russell’s salient website for updates

Follow Russell on Twitter

From the Author

JET is a work of fiction, and any resemblance between the characters in it and real people or organizations is purely coincidental or for literary effect. That’s my way of saying I have no idea whether the Mossad or CIA run assassination squads in the real world. I guess for my sake, I better hope they don’t. Likewise, the Mossad, CIA and KGB are probably stand-up organizations where everyone is honest and hardworking. I have no reason to believe otherwise, but the story plays better if everyone, everywhere, is suspect, crooked, and basically up to no good. So that is the literary leap I make. There are probably numerous things that are not one hundred percent accurate and real-world in these pages. That’s okay. It’s not intended to be an in-depth, hundred percent accurate tome. Hopefully you’ll excuse any literary license.

Likewise, I use dollars most of the time instead of the local currencies, for two reasons. First, to save everyone the trouble of looking up conversion tables, and second, because like it or not, the dollar is the world’s reserve currency, so it’s likely that any large sums or nefarious transactions are being conducted in greenbacks.

JET is the first in a series that came to me as I was writing Silver Justice. I envision four to five books in the series, but possibly as few as three or as many as six – depends on the story there is to tell. I hope you enjoy this first installment as much as I enjoyed writing it.

JET is one of my favorite characters to date, a riddle wrapped in an enigma cloaked in a big helping of ass-kicking. As one of my author friends remarked when I described the high concept: “Tell me she wears black leather. I hope she wears black leather.” You’ll see where that idea took me.

Prologue

The rainy gray of the morning had grudgingly relented to a patchwork of blue peeking between the clouds. Moisture dripped from the dense vegetation onto the encroachment of asphalt, evaporating within seconds of contact. Humidity was a constant this far inland – the nation’s seat had been relocated to this position of relative safety following the hurricane that destroyed the seafront capital forty-something years before.

The bus station at the main junction was a sad affair, as were most of the nearby structures, surrendering to entropy even before the paint had dried on their shabby walls. The terminal was surrounded by a group of ramshackle booths fashioned from tarps and cast-off wood, a squalid tent city that housed vendors hawking tacky artifacts and articles of second-hand clothing.

A retired Greyhound coach creaked as it entered the muddy lot, carrying a handful of intrepid tourists and commuters from the coastal suburbs. The tired air brakes hissed their protest as it pulled to a stop and disgorged its cargo, the rusting, graffiti-covered sides shuddering in time with the idle of the engine.

In the near distance, hulking concrete bunkers, ugly and indifferent, held back the jungle’s creep. Lethargic bureaucrats in shirtsleeves seeped steadily across the expansive open plaza, mopping their brows with hand towels as they shuffled to their offices for another long day of doing nothing.

Three men emerged from the largest building and stood on the steps by the heavy glass entry doors, shielding their faces from the fierce shafts of sun piercing the overcast. After a few parting words, they shook hands, and two of them headed to the parking lot. The third man watched their departure, his coal-black skin glistening with sweat that already threatened to ruin his lightweight navy-blue suit. He glanced at his watch then walked towards a multi-story edifice across the common. The fountain in the middle of the square, thick calcium deposits crusting the pitted centerpiece, hosted a squabble of sparrows intent on bathing in the rainwater accumulated in its base. Drawn by their raucous chirping, he slowed to watch them enjoy their brief reprieve from the oppressive heat.

A sharp crack startled the birds, causing them to take noisy flight as the lone man’s skull exploded in a bloody splatter. His body crumpled to the concrete, dead before what was left of his head hit the ground with a melon-like thud. The few witnesses nearby froze in their tracks, eyes darting around in alarm.

On the top floor of an abandoned motel three hundred yards away, the shooter edged from his vantage point, cradling his rifle as he padded down the deserted stairs that led to the waiting Ford Expedition.

The driver put the vehicle into gear as the rear door opened, scrutinizing the chaos at the government buildings in his rearview mirror. The shooter slid the rifle into a compartment under the cargo mat then gave the vacant parking area a quick scan before climbing into the passenger seat. After fastening his seatbelt, he fumbled a cigarette from a pack in the glove compartment and lit it, adjusting the air vents to direct cold air on his sweating face as the driver pulled onto the road leading out of town. He exhaled in satisfaction, then lowered the window a few inches, and made a hurried call on his cell phone, speaking in a harsh, heavily-accented whisper before hanging up.

With a practiced motion, he flipped the phone’s case back off and tossed the single-use sim chip and the battery through the open window, into the tangle of brushwood. The driver eyed him without comment then returned his attention to the wheel.

The shooter took another drag and cracked a feral grin.

“One down.”

Chapter 1

Turquoise water lapped at the powdery sand on the leeward side of Trinidad, caressing the shore with a tranquil surge. Decrepit fishing skiffs with single outboard engines floated a dozen yards from the beach, tugging gently at their moorings as their captains lazed in the shade, passing rum bottles and familiar stories back and forth.

Music and the heady aroma of exotic food drifted on the evening air as the annual Carnival festival lurched into full roar. Excited groups of young children tore up and down the waterfront, peals of glee and laughter battling with the din of adult celebration. From far and wide, revelers packed the streets, beers hoisted high to the setting sun, welcoming the untamed night that was to follow. Flashes of coffee-colored skin, strong white teeth and long, smooth legs hinted at the weekend’s delights as a tremble of simmering promise pervaded the atmosphere, of possibility and inebriated hope. Drums pounded hypnotic tattoos as the flamboyant costumes and masks paraded, the natives and visitors alike bubbling with a giddy sense of abandon.

The chime of the little internet café’s front door sounded, jolting Maya’s focus from the computer screen at her desk in the rear office. She pushed her long, black hair from her face with a listless hand and clicked the mouse with a sigh, noting the onscreen time. There had been no visitors for at least an hour, and she was getting ready to close. Her assistant had taken off at five, eager to join the bash, leaving her to clean up at the end of the day. Now, four hours later, there was little hope of any more revenue with the town in party mode. Anyone on the streets would have a more tangible kind of entertainment in mind than the sort found in cyberspace.

As she shouldered through the hanging beads that separated the back from the storefront, a garrote looped over her head, and she barely got her left hand up in time to keep it from closing around her throat. She sensed the raw strength of her assailant as the wire bit into her hand and instinctively stomped on the top of his foot, trying to break his hold. Had Maya been wearing her boots, she would have broken metatarsal bones, but with tennis shoes, all her effort bought was a grunt and a momentary relaxation of the deadly pressure.

Blood ran down her wrist as she threw herself back, driving her attacker against a granite counter supporting a bank of monitors. A screen tumbled to the floor and shattered as she groped along the edge of the computers for anything she could use as a weapon.

Her fingers found the neck of a Fanta bottle, and she swung it back to where his head would be. It connected with a satisfying thunk, and she swung it again, this time feeling it break against his skull. Ignoring the pain from the garrote, she stabbed behind her head with the jagged edge of the broken bottle, again and again, then heard a muted exclamation as a warm gush sprayed against her upper back. The grip on her loosened, and she swung around, bringing her knee up in a fluid motion as she flung the garrote away. She felt her leg connect with the soft flesh of his groin and caught a brief impression of a hardened middle-aged face with blood streaming from the man’s lacerated cheek and right eye. He swung at her with a fist, but she ducked to the right, and the punch went wide. She slashed at him with the bottle again, then feinted with it as she kicked him in the abdomen with all her might.

The attacker’s legs buckled, and he stumbled, hitting his brutalized head against the counter as he dropped to one knee. Stunned, he reached into his pocket and extracted a switchblade. The blade snapped open – he lunged – she dodged the knife and kicked him again. This time he was ready for it; she felt the stiff muscles of his stomach tighten for the blow. As he crashed against the counter again, she flung the bottle at him then grabbed a flat screen monitor and swung it against his head, connecting with his cheekbone. The screen splintered as she continued to beat him with it, savaging what was left of his face.

But he still held onto the knife.

He threw himself against her, and she felt a stab of pain as the blade nicked her lower back even as she twisted to stay clear of it. She kneed him again, pulled a mouse free from the devastation and wrapped its cable around his neck, improvising a stranglehold.

The muscles in her arms bulged as she pulled against both ends of the wire, and the slashing of the knife gradually became feebler even as she stayed out of its reach. Maya ignored the blood streaming from the slice in her left hand as she strained to maintain her grip, watching as consciousness faded from the killer.

Aware that he was losing the struggle, he wrenched himself away, tearing the mouse cord from her hands. She rushed towards the cash register, hoping to grab one of the heavy metal pitchers she used for water and juice, but he swung a foot at her legs, bringing her down against the register before he spun, leaning against it for support as he lurched towards her, knife at the ready. She knew he was blinded by the blood streaming down his face, but that wouldn’t do her any good now that she’d lost the momentum and he was on the offensive.

He slashed at her again with the blade, catching her loose shirt but missing her ribs. She twisted and groped for the scissors she kept by the register, but her fingers felt a different, familiar shape. Chest heaving from exertion, she grabbed it and smashed it against his head with all her might.

His eyes widened in puzzled surprise before he dropped to the floor, twitching spasmodically.

She watched his death throes, eyeing the base of the receipt holder she had used, its six-inch steel spike driven through his ear into his brain. When he stopped convulsing, she fell back onto one of the swivel chairs, trembling slightly, and quickly took stock. The hand was messy, but when she flexed her fingers, they moved, so it was superficial. She could tell that the cut on her lower back was trivial, even though it stung a little. Most of the blood on her was from the dead man.

She stood panting for a few moments then, after glancing around, grabbed one of the shop T-shirts she sold to tourists and wrapped it around her hand. Returning to her attacker’s corpse, she leaned down and felt in his clothes for a weapon, but he’d carried nothing other than the garrote, the knife and a wallet with a no-name credit card and a few hundred dollars.

A noise at the back of the shop snapped her back into the moment. Someone was trying to get through the locked back door.

If they were professional, it wouldn’t stop them for long, she knew.

~ ~ ~

A gloved hand pushed the door open, the lock having proved a minor impediment easily overcome with a strategically placed silenced gunshot that shattered the doorjamb with a muffled crack. The cramped hallway was dark, so the intruder moved cautiously through it until he arrived at the small office. Leading with the barrel of his gun, he felt for the light switch on the wall, which he flicked – nothing happened.

The door opposite him burst wide as Maya exploded from the storage closet in a blur. He’d hardly registered her arrival when he dropped the weapon, his life blood pouring down his back from where she had driven the scissors between his shoulder blades, into his heart.

It was over within a few seconds. The intruder’s body slid to the floor and leaked out a dark puddle of crimson. Maya stepped over him, scooped up his pistol and checked it. A Beretta 92, full clip, so fourteen more rounds, allowing for the one used on the door. Custom-machined compact silencer. The gun had been modified to accommodate the suppressor; money and time had been expended – not good.

She crouched by the dead man and performed a quick search but found nothing other than another blank wallet with a few hundred dollars.

The slightest of scrapes sounded from near the back door.

Maya threw herself onto the floor of the hallway and fired close-quarters at the silhouette hulking in the doorframe. A grunt from the shooter, then a silenced slug tore a hole through the wall by her head. She fired two more rounds, and the attacker fell back onto the ground outside.

She waited. One beat. Two. Could be only three of them, or could be a fourth. Or more.

Nothing.

If anyone else was in the mix, they’d be smart to wait for her to come outside and check the body.

She jumped to her feet and ran to the front of the shop. She’d flipped off the breakers before hiding in the closet, so the storefront was now completely dark, the sun having completed its celestial plunge into the sea. Maya stopped at the counter and grabbed another T-shirt from the pile, stripping off her bloody top and replacing it with a clean dark blue one, then grabbed a roll of paper towels from behind the register and made a makeshift dressing for her hand, stuffing another wad into her bag. The gash was already clotting. Even if it felt awful, she’d live.

She paused, ears straining for any sounds. Music from the street and occasional whoops of passing celebrators were the only ones she detected.

Nothing from the back of the shop.

Maya pulled her purse over her shoulder and clutched the gun inside it so it wouldn’t cause panic on the street. Glancing through the windows, she estimated there were easily a couple of hundred people meandering outside, which would make it easy to disappear into the crowd, but would also make it tougher to spot potential attackers. She took one more look at the carnage in the little internet café that had been her livelihood for the last two years and inhaled a deep breath. Nothing good would come from stalling the inevitable, and with any luck, she now had an element of surprise in her favor.

She swung open the front door and stepped out into the fray, alert for anything suspicious. Waves of inebriated locals flowed tipsily down the sidewalks, spilling into the streets, which were closed to cars for the duration of the festival. Two jugglers – high on stilts – tossed balls back and forth, their painted faces leering mirth at the throng beneath.

An explosion ripped into the air overhead, jarring, causing her to cringe. Another sounded before she took in the delighted expressions around her – the detonations were fireworks starbursting amid the fervor of festivities.

She shook herself mentally, forcing her pulse back to normal. The old instincts were rusty, yet it was all coming back in a rush. A third boom reverberated across the waterfront street, and a staccato popping of secondary fireworks followed it, the glow from the red and blue blossoms illuminating the night sky.

She reached the far corner and moved without hesitation across the road to the cluster of buildings that comprised the center of the little beach area where her café was located. She used the storefront windows to study her surroundings, pausing every fifty yards to scan for threats.

Whoever had come after her was deadly serious. The weapons and the approach were uber-pro. Her carefully-constructed peaceful existence was blown. But why this – why now? And who? It made no sense.

Especially since she’d been dead for three years.

Maya was indistinguishable amid the women moving along the water – a sea of black hair and tanned skin – and she liked her odds more at night. Even if her adversaries had photos, which she assumed they must if they had done their homework, in the gloom it would be hard to pick her out, and with Carnival in full flow, many were wearing masks or costumes, further complicating any possibility of identification.

Her hand throbbed with dulled pain as she considered her options. It would be a matter of hours, at most, before the body outside the back door was found and the police went on full alert, issuing an all-points bulletin to bring her in for questioning. Even in a low-key country like Trinidad and Tobago, three dead bodies would demand an explanation – one that she wasn’t in any hurry to make.

She ducked into a souvenir shop and bought a black baseball hat emblazoned with a logo of the island, and a long-sleeved T-shirt with a poorly drawn sailboat illustration. Looking up, she impulsively grabbed a carnival mask with a feather fringe, which she stuffed into her purse before paying. When she exited, she looked more a punky teenager with the hat on backwards than a twenty-eight-year-old. Hopefully, it would be good enough to throw any watchers.

As she moved around a group of boisterous young men, she spotted suspicious movement on the far sidewalk. Maya lifted her phone from her purse and used the screen as a mirror before she raised it to her ear to fake a call. She’d seen enough. A man with a shaved head, obviously not local, wearing a windbreaker in spite of the temperature, was keeping pace. He definitely wasn’t there for the street party.

Maya pretended to chat to a non-existent friend as her mind raced through possible responses. First thing, she’d need to ditch the phone. Even though it was a disposable that she bought airtime for on a card, it might pose a threat – most governments, clandestine groups and sophisticated private surveillance companies could track cell phones or activate the handset to eavesdrop, even if the phone was turned off. She didn’t think it was an issue with a burner phone, but at this point, she needed to assume that the level of technology her pursuers had access to was unlimited.

A fire-breathing man spray-painted entirely in gold appeared in the street next to her and blew a yellow stream of flame into the night sky. Partygoers fought to take pictures until a drunk woman flashed her two companions with a shrill laugh, drawing more photos and creating a temporary diversion for Maya, who took the opportunity to round a corner and drop the phone into a trash can before picking up her speed. Up ahead was a bar she knew, which had a back outdoor area as well as the main barroom. That would pose an opportunity to lose the tail, assuming that whoever this was didn’t go overt and start gunning down everything that moved. Judging by the earlier attack, they wanted to take her out with a minimum of fanfare, although that had quickly gone sideways on them.

The doorway to the bar, El Pescador, was just a few more yards on her right. Music and laughter emanated in waves from within, and it sounded packed, which could work in her favor.

She slipped past a group of drinkers standing just inside and pushed through the mass of bodies, the rear outdoor area her target. A few jostled patrons shot her dirty looks as she pulled the new long-sleeved T-shirt over the one she was wearing. There was no point in making tracking her easy for her pursuers. She flipped the baseball cap onto a table and quickly pulled her hair into a ponytail, fishing a hair tie from her purse, the reassuring bulk of the silenced pistol brushing her knuckles. Within seconds, she was another woman – this one a serious college student on holiday.

Maya resisted the temptation to look back and see if her stalker had followed her into the bar, and instead pressed her way through the final five feet to the rear courtyard. There were fewer people outside, although she knew that within a few hours the entire establishment would be standing room only.

She looked around and spotted the area of the outdoor wall that had brought her to the bar – two bathrooms she remembered were in a brick enclosure that had open air over the commodes. Maya darted to the women’s room and locked the door, wasting no time in standing on the toilet seat and reaching to grab the lip of the wall.

Her injured hand screamed in protest as she pulled herself up and over, dropping silently into the alley before sprinting off. Whoever was chasing her was improvising now – there was clearly no plan other than to terminate her, and they were probably shorthanded since three of them had been neutralized at her shop.

A chunk of mortar tore off the façade next to her, and she heard the distinctive sound of a ricochet, so she increased to a flat-out run to put distance between herself and the shooter. Another shot missed by a wider margin – she dared a glance over her shoulder. The gunman was firing through the rear bathroom window, probably standing on the toilet to reach the aperture, which had iron bars on it to prevent break-ins. She didn’t want to waste any of her precious bullets, so she raced to the end of the long block rather than shooting back. A silenced 9mm round would lose accuracy every yard she put between her and the gun. Given the distance, she liked her odds – which changed when she turned the corner into an even smaller street and confronted a running figure thirty yards away brandishing a pistol.

They must have been communicating, probably by radio or a private com channel.

The gunman hesitated for a split second, and Maya fired through her purse. Two of the rounds went wild, but the third connected, and he went down, shooting even as he dropped. She felt a tug at the bottom of her new shirt, and she saw a smoking hole in the loose folds around her waist. The bullet had missed her by no more than a centimeter, which was enough, but still too close.

Another round went wide as the shooter tried to hit her. Moving a few steps closer to him, she pulled the Beretta free of her purse, aimed carefully, and fired. The man jerked as his weapon rattled against the cobblestone, and then he lay still.

Maya approached cautiously, gun trained on his inert body, and when she reached him, she toed his gun out of reach. She noted that his Beretta was the twin of hers – then her legs swept from under her, and she was falling backwards. The shooter had sweep-kicked her, and she hadn’t reacted in time, realizing her error even as she went with the momentum and rolled.

The pain from the impact shot up her side as she hit the hard street, but she ignored it and concentrated on maintaining her grip on her weapon even as she tried to get far enough from the downed man to avoid any more damage from him. Her wrist struck the ground and went numb for a split second, and she involuntarily dropped the pistol with a wince.

He kicked at her again, but she surprised him by launching herself at his face, leading with her elbow. She felt a satisfying connection with his jaw and heard his head smack against the street’s rough surface. She followed it up with another brutal downward blow with the same elbow and heard a crunch as his nose fragmented.

Her head snapped back and blinding pain shot up her jaw as his fist bashed into it, then she felt impossibly strong arms wrap around her upper torso, seeking a hold. She pivoted with his pull and rammed the heel of her damaged hand into his ruined nose, but he twisted at the last second, avoiding the lethal strike that would have ended his life. Maya instantly followed with an eye dig, ignoring her hand’s protest as she drove her fingernails into his corneas. This time he wasn’t quite fast enough, and he howled in anguish – the first noise either of them had made during the deadly contest.

The scream was cut off by her next strike: both palms slammed against his ears, instantly bursting his eardrums – an injury she knew caused unspeakable agony. His arms fell away from her as they groped for his head, and she completed her follow-through by slamming his skull against the pavement. The sickening crack confirmed that the fight was over, and he lay still, blood trickling into the gutter from underneath him.

She rolled away, rose to her knees, then stood and stepped to where his weapon lay. Confirming that it was the same as hers, she popped the magazine out and slipped the full clip into her purse. There would be time to reload her gun once she had some breathing room.

Another figure peered around the corner of the building at the end of the block, the muzzle of his silenced pistol pointing in her direction – she instinctively reacted, whipping the clip-less pistol at him and pulling the trigger.

The lone chambered round that remained in the gun discharged, and she watched as the side of his face blew off and his body collapsed back behind the building.

After dropping the empty gun, she scooped hers up and approached the latest attacker’s motionless form as she mulled her options. She could either keep running or stay and concentrate on taking out anyone else pursuing her. The momentary glimpse she’d gotten of the latest shooter hadn’t looked like the man who’d been following her, so there was at least one more out there. Maybe more.

She peered cautiously in the direction she’d come from, but the alley was empty. The gunman in the bar bathroom had likely elected to exit from the front entrance and loop around. That was valuable information. She could anticipate his approach.

Still watching the alley, she reached her throbbing hand down and quickly went through the fallen attacker’s pockets, noting the telltale smashed earbud wedged under his head. State-of-the-art closed-loop com gear – as expected.

His weapon was another Beretta clone, so she exchanged the clip for the one in her pistol and then melted into the darkness of a nearby doorway, prepared for the next attack.

Which never came.

She waited expectantly but nobody materialized. One minute, then two, and nothing.

From the opposite direction, she heard conversation in Spanish over shuffling footsteps. It sounded like three young men arguing about where to go next. Their evening would be ruined when they came across the corpses, but that wasn’t her problem.

She needed to get out of there, grab her pre-prepared escape kit, and disappear forever.

Maya eased from the gloom, quiet as a ghost, and edged into the night, the echoing voices of the young men following her down the street as she became one with the shadows.

Chapter 2

Sirens keened in the distance as she marked out an unobtrusive pace – just another local on her way home after a long day.

That she would wind up being hunted by the police was a given. The only question was how long it would take. If they had help, such as an anonymous call fingering her, it could be near instant. If they had to piece things together after finding the bodies at the café, she probably had a few hours.

But she couldn’t count on catching any breaks – she hadn’t yet. It was safest to assume the authorities would start looking for her any minute, which made getting to her escape kit priority number one.

Four blocks away, she turned and continued towards the park – her destination an English pub owned by a woman she’d befriended shortly after arriving on the island, who had helped her find an apartment and put her in touch with many of the workers needed to finish out the internet café. Chloé was a French ex-pat in her early forties who had been through two husbands, was on number three, and had wound up living on Trinidad by accident, as many did. She’d come on vacation and fallen in love with the bar owner – Vincente, husband number three. They had a nice business carved out catering to islanders looking for something different. Four months after meeting her, Maya had asked Chloé to store a few boxes in her cellar.

The King’s Arms was slow this Friday night. Most of the action was down at the waterfront for Carnival, and there were only a few stalwart hard drinkers at the bar, and three fat Germans enjoying a loud argument in their native tongue over why nobody but Germans could brew decent beer. Maya spoke seven languages, but when she entered, she kept her understanding to herself, even as they made leering comments to one another at what they’d like to do with her.

Chloé was wiping down the bottles with a cloth.

Maya approached her with a smile.

Chloé frowned in return. “Sweetheart! What happened to you? What’s wrong with your hand?”

Maya knew she looked worse for wear. She glanced down at the bloody mess of paper towels she’d hastily wrapped around her hand, keenly aware of the bruising that must have been starting on her face.

“I’m such an idiot. I was trying to hang some new art, and it got away from me. I was using wire to suspend it, and it cut me when I fell off the chair I was standing on. I’m going to get stitches after I’m done here.”

“What? Stitches? Good Lord! Did you hit your head hard?” Chloé exclaimed, her mothering instinct coming out.

“Hard enough, but my hand got most of the damage. It looks way worse than it is. It was so stupid using a swivel chair. Listen, Chloé, I need to get into the box I left with you. I’m sorry about the hour, but is there any way I can? I’ll only need a few minutes.”

“Are you crazy? Go and get that hand taken care of. The box can wait.”

“I know, I know, but I’m here now, and I have a few things I absolutely need to get.”

Chloé sighed her resignation. “If you say so. I can open up the cellar, but I’m single-handed so you’ll need to manage by yourself. Vincente is at Carnival with some friends. We expected it would be dead tonight. Everyone’s out in the streets.”

“I’ll only be five minutes. I know exactly what I’m looking for.”

“Cheri, you’re worrying me. The hospital will take hours to treat you. Let me make a phone call to a friend of mine – a doctor. A general practitioner, but he should be able to handle a few stitches. He lives above his offices. Only a few streets away.”

Maya considered the offer, balancing it against her sense of urgency. She’d need to take care of her hand eventually or risk being in a situation where it could incapacitate her.

“Oh, Chloé. Thank you so much. You’re the best friend ever. Really. I hate for you to go to the trouble…”

“Nonsense. I’ll open up for you and then make the call. Hopefully he’s not drunk yet.”

They walked together to the back, and she unlocked the door that led to the basement. Chloé switched on the light and pointed down the rickety wooden stairs.

“It’s right where you left it, at the back by the two scuba tanks.”

“I remember. Go take care of your customers. I’ll be back in no time.” Maya slipped by her and entered the dank space.

Chloé nodded and softly closed the door behind her.

Maya locked the deadbolt so she wouldn’t be disturbed and made straight for the box she’d left almost two years ago. It was still sealed with the original packing tape. She pulled it towards her and slit the tape with her keys, then reached in and lifted out a medium-sized aluminum suitcase designed for carry-on luggage. After thumbing the numbers on the latch dials, she flipped the levers, and they popped open with a snap.

Maya glanced up at the door and then began her inventory.

First came the Heckler & Koch MP7A1 machine pistol wrapped in oilcloth, followed by the sound suppressor. Then the four thirty-round magazines and three boxes of ammo. Next, a butterfly knife with a razor-sharp blade, and two hand grenades. A Ruger P95 9mm pistol with one extra clip, and a stainless steel Super Tool.

Weapons spread on the floor, she reached in and extracted a heavy waterproof plastic bag. Inside were twenty thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills, a Belgian and a Nicaraguan passport in different names, matching driver’s licenses, a corporate credit card with an expiration date good for three more years in the name of Techno Globus SA that would allow her to access the account with a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in it from any ATM in the world. The final items were a first aid kit, hair dye and a handheld GPS resting on top of an empty Swiss slimline nylon backpack – virtually indestructible, with two compartments that were waterproof to five meters. After loading the magazines she repacked the box, replacing the locked suitcase before sliding it back into place next to the scuba tanks. She checked her watch then packed the weapons and documents in the backpack, amazed at how little room everything occupied. Maya felt much better now that she had her own guns and a couple of new identities in her hands.

In no time at all she was back at the bar, thanking Chloé again.

“See? I told you it wouldn’t take long.”

“I managed to get hold of my friend. He agreed to see you in ten minutes at his office. It’s next to the little café that serves those great croissants. Do you remember?”

“How can I forget? Thanks again, Chloé. I didn’t mean to disrupt your exciting evening with the boys,” Maya quipped, eyeing the inebriated Germans.

“As long as they pay, I’m happy. Do you need his address? His name’s Roberto. Not bad looking, either.”

“No, I can find it.”

Maya reached out her good arm and hugged Chloé, kissing her on the cheek.

“Ciao, sweetie. Good luck with the stitches, and call me if you need anything. I’ll be here till two,” Chloé said, still concerned.

“I will. Be good.”

The streets became more crowded as she wound her way back to the waterfront. The doctor’s office was five blocks from the shore – far enough for the rents to be drastically lower, but close enough to receive sick or hurt tourists. She found it with ease, and he was waiting at the door, holding it open.

“Doctor Roberto?”

“That’s me. And you must be Carla…” Carla was the name Maya used in Trinidad – her third alias, which was now blown.

She nodded.

“Come in. Let’s see what we have here.” He led her to the little examination room, which was already illuminated.

Maya repeated her story for him as he examined the wound. She winced as he probed it and flushed it out with antiseptic rinse.

“You’re very lucky. You missed the artery by a few millimeters. No tendons severed, so you should recover with no problems. You won’t be playing the piano this week, but apart from the pain, it’s not the end of the world.”

“That’s a relief.”

“I’ll give you something for the discomfort – you’ll need a few stitches.”

“No, I’m good. I have a high pain threshold. Just do your worst.”

He regarded her. “You sure?”

“No problem. Just sew me up, and let’s get it over with.”

Five minutes later, he was finished and had applied a proper dressing with a bandage and gauze wrap. She held it up and inspected it, nodding.

“Thanks so much for this. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour. Really.”

“Any friend of Chloé’s is a friend of mine. Besides, you’re lucky you got me before I headed out. Which is my plan now.” He gave her another look and smiled. “Can I interest you in a cocktail on the water?”

After a little back and forth, she was able to extract herself graciously, begging off due to a headache – Roberto refused to accept any payment but insisted she take his cell number. If she hadn’t been running for her life, she might have even been interested in having a beer or two with him, but tonight wasn’t meant to be. She had to figure out how she was going to get off the island while she still could. It was only a matter of time before the police locked it down.

~ ~ ~

Maya paused a hundred yards from her apartment building, wary of surveillance. Further down the block, a dog barked – a pit bull that she knew from experience was mostly attitude. But the tone of the barking, strident and agitated, gave her pause – there was an unusual urgency to it.

The few cars in the neighborhood were dilapidated, beaten by time, their exteriors corroded by the salt air and decades of neglect. She didn’t see any unfamiliar vehicles, so if her pursuers knew where she lived, they weren’t mounting a watch from the road.

A few porch lamps provided scant illumination, the street lights long ago having burned out, the city’s promises of replacement as hollow as most of the other assurances of change. She moved cautiously in the shadows, senses on alert. There was still at least the one man from the bar out there somewhere, and quite possibly more, although the number sent to terminate one target would likely be low, and her adversaries might continue to underestimate her.

Circling the block, she didn’t see anything suspicious. Maya always paid for the apartment in cash every month, no lease, so there was no way to track her to it short of following her, which she almost surely would have detected. Even if she was a little rusty, she still had the sixth sense for being watched that she’d honed. Many of the better field operatives developed it over time, and she had been the best.

On second approach, she came in from the back of the complex, having climbed over a wall separating the garbage area from the neighbor. Her second floor apartment was dark, and there was no sign that anyone had been there. No watchers in the trees, no suspicious loitering figures.

A black and white cat tore across her path with a hiss. Startled, she whipped out the pistol before registering what it was. Seeing its furry form scurry away, she took several deep breaths to slow the pulse pounding in her ears back to normal.

Maybe she was more than a little rusty.

In the old days, none of this would have raised her heart rate above eighty.

As she took another few silent steps, she caught movement on the periphery of her vision. The glint of something by the parking area. Maybe a watch. She peered into the gloom, eyes searching, but she didn’t see anything more.

It didn’t matter.

It was enough.

Someone was there.

The gunfire came with no warning. She rolled behind a low cinderblock wall, listening to the rapid-fire cracking of the silenced pistol some forty yards away.

The slugs slammed harmlessly against the concrete. The dark had helped her. Just enough. She’d caught a break at last. Now the question was whether to fight or run.

Her instinct was to fight, but she had no information about her attackers, which placed her at a distinct disadvantage.

She emptied seven shots at what she guessed was the shooter’s position and sprinted for the back of the building, weaving as she ran. It was dark enough and with sufficient cover, so she wasn’t worried. The gunman had probably been waiting for her to go into the apartment, having planned to take her there – if he hadn’t wired it with explosives already. Or there was someone inside waiting patiently for her to make the last mistake of her life.

Moments later, Maya was over the wall and zigzagging across the property. She didn’t hear any more shots, so her pursuer was probably wasting a few precious seconds debating what to do – seconds that would be the difference between escape and death.

She ran efficiently, effortlessly, with an economy that spoke to endurance. If necessary, she could keep up a good pace for an hour. Every morning she did so, part of her routine.

A bullet grazed her shoulder, burning as it seared a groove across her deltoid muscle – she abruptly cut between two small houses. As Maya regained her breath, she heard the rev of a car motor and the squeal of poorly maintained brakes, followed by the distinctive sound of two doors slamming. Another car revved, and tires squealed.

She vaulted over a fence, barely slowing for it, and cut back, returning the way she’d come, but three houses down from where she’d heard the car. That would be the last thing they’d expect – her doubling back.

Three slugs struck the wall behind her.

She saw the flash from a car sixty yards away – a black sedan, all of its windows down. Ducking, she emptied the silenced pistol at it as she scrambled for cover. A round whistled by her head, so she threw herself behind a brick garbage enclosure.

Enough of this shit.

She slipped off the backpack, unzipped it, then gripped the handle of the MP7 and pulled it free. Another round thumped into the brick as she methodically screwed the sound suppressor into place, and then she slipped the extra magazines into her back pockets before dropping the pistol into the backpack and pulling it back on.

Maya rolled from the cover of the structure, took aim, then fired a slew of two-round bursts into the sedan. The submachine gun’s armor-piercing bullets sliced through the doors like they were warm butter; the horn sounded as the driver’s head smashed forward against the steering wheel. The shooting from the car stopped.

A dark Ford Explorer screeched around the corner and raced directly at her. She could see a figure leaning out of the passenger side window with a pistol, and she didn’t hesitate to use the MP7’s superior range. She flipped the weapon to full auto and emptied the gun into the SUV. Without taking her eyes off the Explorer as it bore down on her, she ejected the spent magazine and slammed another one home, then continued firing burst after burst at close range. The gunman fell back into the cab with a grunt, and his pistol clattered to the ground.

The vehicle slowed, then veered away from her before bouncing onto the sidewalk and crashing into a parked Mitsubishi. Maya emptied the rest of the second clip at it and slapped the third one into place.

A light went on in the house behind it.

The bullet-riddled SUV showed no signs of life.

She listened intently for any more vehicles but couldn’t discern much over the din of the dead sedan’s horn, which was still blaring.

A light went on in another nearby home. Glancing around, Maya spun and ran as fast as her legs would carry her, reversing her direction to take her farther from her apartment.

At the end of the block, she stopped and unscrewed the suppressor, then stowed the weapon back in the bag. No point in terrifying everyone she came across.

She kept moving until, two blocks away from the gun battle, she saw a solitary headlight bouncing towards her. A motor scooter whined its way down the little street, moving along at no more than twenty miles per hour. Maya stopped and waved until it slowed and then rolled to a stop. A young man looked her up and down in the faint lighting.

Maya threw him a luminescent smile. “Hey. Are you going to the party by the water? My ankle is hurting…”

He returned the smile. “Sure. Hop on. I’m Kyle.”

“Nice to meet you, Kyle. Veronique.”

She put her arms around him, and they sped off. Her pursuers, and the police, if they were now part of her problems, would be looking for a single woman, not a couple on a motorbike.

Maya removed her left arm from his waist and felt the bullet graze on her shoulder. Her hand came away with blood on it, but she could tell it was only a flesh wound. Still, she had the problem of how to conceal it – she’d hoped by now it would have stopped bleeding.

A block from the beach Kyle eased to a stop to avoid a swarm of drunken pedestrians, and she abruptly hopped off the back.

“Thanks, Kyle. See you around,” she said, vanishing into the crowd as he tried to process what had just happened.

Maya ducked into the first trinket shop she came to and bought a black T-shirt with a PADI symbol on the front, tossing payment at the bored shopkeeper before dashing out. She slipped into a grimy space between two buildings, pulled off her bloody long-sleeved shirt and dropped it into the gutter before pulling on the new one. The bleeding from her shoulder had finally slowed, the bullet having effectively cauterized most of the wound, and the shirt’s dark color would mask any leakage. She reached into her purse and retrieved one of the gauze pads Roberto had given her, then stuck it up the sleeve and onto the graze.

That was all she could do for now. She checked the time and saw that it was already ten thirty. The ferries had stopped running, and the airport would be a non-starter. The corpses would result in a full-court press by the police, and even the controlled chaos of a big weekend like Carnival wouldn’t be enough cover. That left two choices – either find someplace remote to hide for at least a day or two, or steal a boat tonight and try to make it to the Venezuelan mainland.

She didn’t like her odds hiding. The shootings would be the biggest news to hit the island in years, so even the normally relaxed locals would be scared, shocked, and on high alert. And once they put her identity together with the bodies at the café…

Her picture would be everywhere. All the authorities had was her passport photo, which now looked almost nothing like her – in the picture, she had shorter auburn hair parted on the side, with blond highlights along the front, whereas now it was her natural black color and three years longer – but she could only change her face so much.

She was going to have to find a boat.

Several marinas dotted the stretch of shore nearest Venezuela, just west of Port of Spain. The good news was that the whole town went a little crazy during Carnival so security was likely to be lax. Anyone working would be wishing they had the night off so they could enjoy the show, not watching for boat thieves.

She fished the feathered mask out of her purse and donned it, then glided back into the mass of partyers, this time just another anonymous merrymaker enjoying the festivities. The volume of the music had increased, as had the beat, the intensity matching the growing atmosphere of capricious mayhem that was spilling onto the streets. A woman in a beaded dress wearing an elaborate headdress danced by, her hips performing impossible undulations to the island rhythms, while a group of younger girls giggled as they watched a trio of tough-looking teens eyeing them from the other side of the road.

A hand nudged her purse, and she grabbed it, simultaneously twisting as she flicked open her butterfly knife. A wide-eyed islander found himself with the razor-sharp blade at his throat; the heavy scent of fear and sweat and coconut rum assaulted her with each of his panicked exhalations. He backed off, hands raised, muttering that it was a mistake.

Maya lowered the knife and flipped it closed with a lightning motion. Petty thieves were a constant during street festivals like this. She’d have to be more careful. She’d been so busy formulating her plan and watching for potential killers – she hadn’t factored in the local predatory hazards. That couldn’t happen again.

Several streets from the main drag, she flagged down a taxi and told the surly driver to take her to the marina by the yacht club. He grunted assent and crunched the old car into gear, growling a fee that was double what it should have been. She didn’t complain. The marina was in one of the ritzier neighborhoods, and he probably felt there should be a premium.

As he dropped her off a quarter block from the empty parking lot, a warm breeze was wafting from Venezuela, less than twenty miles away. It smelled of the sea and heavy jungle, the vegetation blending with the salt air in a way unique to that stretch of coast. Down at the water, the powerboats rocked gently at the docks, pulling lazily on their creaking lines. The yacht club itself was dark, closed for the night.

A security guard lounged on a folding chair near the main gate, laughing with a woman who was telling a story in the distinctive island patois, its musical lilt as distinctive as a primary color. A tinny, calypso rhythm refrained from a portable stereo near the guard shack, the light wind seasoned with the pungent scent of marijuana.

The woman took a swig from a bottle and passed it to the uniformed man, who made an unintelligible comment, laughed, and drank deep. This encounter obviously had a destination before the evening was over, and Maya guessed that the couple would either retreat to the security room for a little privacy, or move to a vacant boat. Such things were not unknown to happen when the trade winds blew.

She checked the time impatiently, resigned herself to waiting, and retreated into a dark recess where she could keep an eye on them.

A disgruntled gull shot her a glum look, annoyed at having its roost intruded on by her presence, and then stalked away before taking up position near a boulder by the shore. Other than the din floating in from the town’s nightlife and the pulsing steel drums on the radio, the water was quiet, and she could make out lights of a few slow-moving sailboats coming in to a nearby bay to anchor.

Forty minutes later, Maya’s chance came in the form of an empty bottle. The guard took his companion by the hand and pulled her towards the security office, her resistance purely obligatory judging by the speed with which her objections turned into peals of inebriated laughter. The door slammed shut, and within a few long moments, the blinds dropped and the lights went out.

Maya didn’t wait to time the couple. She sidled past the office window, crouched out of sight, then made her way down to the main dock entrance. Finding it locked, she climbed around the barbed wire mounted to the sides of the gate, swinging easily past the barricade.

At the mooring closest to the breakwater, she found what she was hoping for – a well-maintained thirty-two-foot Intrepid sports cruiser with a pair of big Mercury outboard motors. It was low to the water and looked fast, used as a dive boat, judging by the equipment on board – tank racks, plentiful rear deck area and decent electronics. She ducked under the center console and located the ignition wires. After a couple of tries, the engines burbled to life.

She moved carefully around the deck, untying the lines, and within ninety seconds was pulling out of the marina. A yell followed her from the shore, and Maya hastily looked back at the main building. The guard was running towards the gate, his shirt hanging open and one hand holding up his pants, the other gesticulating wildly. She’d hoped that the sound of the engines wouldn’t alert him, but apparently that wasn’t to be the case, which meant she’d need to run flat-out in order to outrun the patrol boats that cruised the channel day and night.

Maya powered the radio on and, once clear of the breakwater, eased the throttles open. The boat leapt forward, eagerly slicing through the gentle rolling swells. She didn’t illuminate the running lamps, preferring to pilot using only the glow of the moon. She could just make out the distant shore of Venezuela, and didn’t think she’d need much else.

A few minutes later, the radio crackled to life, and she heard the alert go out to the police boats. After a brief pause, one responded and gave his location as only two miles east of the marina. She leaned against the wheel and pushed the throttles three-quarters forward and watched as the speed gauge blew through forty knots, the motors roaring like a jet on takeoff. Scanning the instruments, she fiddled with the radar, and after a few flickers, the small screen glowed green. She punched buttons, increasing the range to eight miles. The boats on the water lit up as blips, one of which was moving directly towards her.

She looked over her shoulder and spotted the flashing lights of a patrol boat in the distance off her port side. A quick glance at the radar and an adjustment confirmed she was now hurtling towards Venezuela at roughly forty-three knots. The likelihood was slim that whatever the police boat had under the hood would be able to overtake her. The only real problem she could think of would be if the Venezuelan navy had a ship in the area and sent it to intercept her, or if the police could get a helicopter scrambled in the next twenty minutes – doubtful at such a late hour and with the island on holiday footing.

The radio blared a burst of static, and a deep baritone voice came over the channel.

“Attention. Stolen boat Courvoisier. This is the Trinidad police. We have you on radar. Shut down your engines. Now. Repeat. Shut down your engines. We are armed and will fire if you don’t immediately comply.”

They were probably broadcasting across all channels.

But what were the chances they would shoot? Not very high, she decided. That had probably been a bluff. Besides, at a range of almost a mile and a half, there was little likelihood they would be able to hit anything, even if they had a fifty-caliber machine gun onboard. She knew from experience that their effective range was seventeen hundred yards – about one mile. At two thousand yards, accuracy dropped off. Past that and, while it might still be dangerous at over three thousand yards, there was slim chance of hitting much at night from a moving boat shooting at another fast-moving target – especially in a relatively crowded sea lane.

A metallic voice hailed over the water on the patrol craft’s public address system. She could barely make it out over the engines. It repeated the same message, warning her to stop or they would fire at her. She peered at the radar and saw another blip heading towards her from the northwest, coming from La Retraite. No doubt a second patrol boat. Two miles away.

The radio and loudspeaker message sounded again, and she goosed the throttle more. Forty-four knots. No way would the patrol boats be able to catch up to her at that speed.

The water fifty yards in front of her boiled where a burst of fifty-caliber rounds struck its surface, and she heard the rapid-fire booming of the big gun in the distance.

So much for not shooting. That was a warning shot. But the next one might not be.

The police were no doubt in panic mode as calls reporting the shootings had poured in. On a relatively peaceful island like Trinidad, the unprecedented violence had to have unnerved them.

She slammed the throttles all the way forward, and the speed gauge climbed to fifty knots. The water was nearly flat because the island sheltered the shipping lane so she had no problems, but she knew that could end at any time. She cranked the wheel to starboard and cut west, moving towards a slow-cruising sailboat an eighth of a mile away. She could dodge between the boats and the nearby islands until the gun was completely out of range. At fifty knots, she figured that would take five minutes, tops.

The radio warned that the shots across her bow would not be repeated – the next ones would be aimed directly at her. She reached over and turned the volume down.

The Intrepid streaked past the sailboat, and she adjusted her course again, putting the meandering vessel between her and the first patrol boat. The second one was moving somewhat slower and was farther away, so posed no threat, unlike the one with the trigger-happy shooter aboard.

Up ahead loomed a larger ship – commercial judging by its size. She again cut dangerously close without letting up on speed and saw that it was a private motor yacht, at least a hundred feet long. That would provide even more effective cover.

Now the speedo read fifty-one knots. The engines were redlining, but the temp gauges looked okay, so she kept the throttles firewalled.

There was no more shooting. Her strategy had worked. Cooler heads had prevailed, and the proximity of other craft had acted as a disincentive. Nobody wanted to be the one to blow a bystander’s head off to recover a stolen boat, no matter how excited they were in the heat of the moment.

Watching the blip that represented the patrol boat, she saw that she was pulling steadily away from it and now had almost two and a half miles of distance. She estimated that the pursuit craft was topping out at just under forty knots, which was still very fast, but no match for hers. The second patrol boat appeared to be moving at around thirty-six knots, so either it had a dirty bottom, or different props, or full tanks. Whatever the case, neither would be able to get close enough to pose any further threat. At her current speed, she would be off the Venezuelan coast within no more than ten minutes, and there was a better than good chance that the Trinidad patrol boats would abandon the chase once she was in Venezuelan waters – no one would want an international incident over a stolen pleasure cruiser.

She engaged the autopilot and felt the steering stiffen. The system was intuitive – on and off buttons, with a dial to set direction. Another glance at the radar told her there was now nothing between her and Venezuela, so she moved forward and blew the cuddy cabin lock off with her pistol. Inside, she ferreted around for a few minutes, and then emerged with a dive bag in her hand.

To her surprise, the patrol boat kept coming. Worse, when she panned the radar out to sixteen miles, she saw that a large shape was steaming towards her from Venezuelan territory, approaching from the south. It didn’t look like it would get close in time to stop her, but the water was getting too crowded for her liking, and if it was a navy ship, it could well fire on her from a considerable range with its deck guns, and she’d be a sitting duck.

After entering the channel between Isla de Patos and the Venezuelan mainland, she slowed the boat to fifteen knots and emptied her backpack. She hated to leave her weapons, but it wouldn’t be a good idea to be searched in Venezuela and have to explain a machine gun. She took her shoes off and put them into the bag, wedged with the money, documents and GPS, and sealed it carefully. After one more glance at the patrol boat in the distance, she slipped her arms through the backpack straps and opened the bilge hatches. Two emergency five-gallon gas tanks sat strapped in place on the deck. She took one and emptied it into the bilge. The stink of raw fuel filled the cockpit as she moved to the radio and lifted the microphone to her mouth, shifting her voice an octave lower than her normal speaking range, holding it away from her mouth so the engines would further garble the sound. With any luck, it would sound like a panicked young man.

“Mayday. Mayday. My gas tank is leaking. A bullet must have punctured it. Oh my God…”

She dropped the mike onto the deck and switched the radio off. Then, gauging her timing, she pulled the pins on both the grenades, dropped them into the bilge, and then dived off the transom into the wake, the swimming fins and snorkel she’d found below clenched firmly in her good hand.

The Intrepid continued for sixty yards and then exploded in a fireball, lighting up the night as the remaining fuel detonated. Maya felt a surge of heat on her face. She pulled on the swim fins and put the snorkel in her mouth as she watched the crippled boat burn to the waterline and sink into the depths.

Her hand stung from the salt water, as did her shoulder – nothing she couldn’t handle, and in March, the sea temperature was in the low eighties, which was ideal. She quickly guesstimated that she would need to swim six miles to get to shore. With the fins, and in no particular hurry, she could do that standing on her head.

Maya began pulling for the glimmering lights of what resembled a small fishing village in the distance, using a smooth, measured stroke, the fins a considerable help in propelling her along. By the time either the Venezuelans or the Trinidad patrol made it to where the boat had exploded, she would be miles away.

Three hours later, she pulled herself up onto a deserted beach a quarter mile west of the little village of Macuro. She cut a solitary figure as she peered out to sea, where in the distance, the lights of the naval ship pierced the night, no doubt in position where the Intrepid had sunk. The moon seemed brighter as she stood panting, dripping salt water onto the sand. She surveyed the few lights on in the sleeping fishing hamlet and decided to wait until morning before making her way in to either catch a bus or hire a local skiff to take her to a larger town.

The warm wind tousled her damp hair as she gazed at the horizon, turning the same thoughts over in her mind that had occupied her for most of the swim.

How had they found her, and who were they? And why were they trying to kill her? Nobody knew that she was still alive. She’d covered her tracks.

She was long dead, the life she’d lived dead as well.

Except it wasn’t.

Somehow, some way, her past had caught up with her.

She ran her fingers through her hair, brushing away the salt and sand, and closed her eyes. Only a select few had ever known her real name was Maya. Everyone else had known her by her operational name, which was the way she liked it. Long ago, Maya had morphed into something deadly, something awe-inspiring, and she’d left her true identity behind when she’d assumed the code name Jet – the name of a clandestine operative the likes of which the world had never seen. And ultimately, she’d left her Jet identity dead off another coast three years ago, on the far side of the planet, finished with the covert life she’d led and everything that had gone with it.

Jet had been the polar opposite of her donor, Maya, and had never found any use for her weaknesses, no room for her softness, her compassion. Jet was lethality incarnate, the swift hand of vengeance, a deadly visitation from which there was no escape. She was a ghost, untouchable, the reaper, a killing machine revered in hushed tones even in her own elite circle.

And now Jet was back in the land of the living, the beast awakened. Whoever wanted her dead had loosed a primal force of nature that was unstoppable, and as much as Maya had tried to leave Jet behind, the only way she could see any future at all was to become that which she had buried forever.

Jet closed then slowly reopened her eyes, seeing the world as if for the first time, the warm breeze caressing her exotic features like a lover. She inhaled deeply the sweet air, turned, then padded across the powdery sand to a spot where she could rest until morning.

Dawn would break soon enough.

And there would be work to do.

Website link is http://RussellBlake.com/

Twitter handle is @Blakebooks

THE NINTH DISTRICT - Douglas Dorow

The Federal Reserve has never been robbed.

FBI Special Agent Jack Miller, pulled into a high-profile case to mentor a new agent, finds himself in a clash with the toughest opponent of his career. The chase ends in the storm sewers and tunnels beneath THE NINTH DISTRICT Federal Reserve of Minneapolis.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Douglas Dorow is a thriller writer from Minneapolis, Minnesota, the home of many thriller/suspense writers. Is it something in the water or the long, cold winter?

THE NINTH DISTRICT

A Thriller

DOUGLAS DOROW

Copyright © 2011 Douglas Dorow

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the author, except for brief passages for review purposes.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

CHAPTER 1

The woman stood in the middle of the bank atrium. She stood there with a look of anguish on her face, staring at the gun pointed at her, and moved her hands to her mouth and to her stomach and ended up with one hand over each. She was in her early thirties, dressed in black pants and a striped top with sleeves to the elbows. She had long, dark, shoulder-length hair held back by a white headband and she was pregnant. She looked close to term the way her stomach stretched the shirt. She shook her head back and forth, her eyes never leaving the gun.

A man in a long, black trench coat stood in front of her and motioned with the gun for her to move towards the rear of the bank. She didn’t move. He finally pointed the gun at her stomach and motioned with his head for her to move. The woman wrapped her arms around her belly to protect her unborn child before moving in the direction he’d indicated. The man followed and reached out and pushed her shoulder with his gloved left hand to move her along. His right hand held the gun, pointed at her back. The woman stumbled, and shook her head back and forth; her shoulders hitched up and down as she struggled against the tears. She trudged ahead. They disappeared as they turned left around the corner into a hallway, first the woman, and then the man.

Later, they came back around the corner, the woman again in the lead. The man had a black computer bag slung over his shoulder. The woman walked to the desks in the middle of the bank lobby atrium and turned towards the man. She was crying and repeating “I don’t know” as she stared at the gun pointed at her unborn child. The man’s right arm raised and pointed at her head. She repeated the words.

The man took a step forward and pressed the muzzle of the gun against her forehead to emphasize his point.

The woman stepped back and raised her hands up. “I don’t know,” she shouted in three deliberate words. There was a puff of smoke and the woman’s head rocked back before she fell, her long hair billowing up and following her down to the floor.

The man stood with the gun pointed out for a couple of seconds before lowering it. He looked down at the woman, then walked over and nudged her with his foot. The smoke from the shot hung in the air of the lobby and swirled over the spot where the woman had fallen. He knelt and put his hand on her belly, held it there for a count of three. Then he stood. He turned towards the exit without looking back at the pregnant woman lying dead on the floor with blood pooling around her head. As he approached the door, he looked up at the camera posted over it and gave a little salute.

* * *

“Freeze it!” Staring out from the television was the face of a bank robber, a killer, in a mock salute. “What the hell? Is that who I think it is? Rewind it and play it again.”

“Jack, I’ve watched this ten times and there’s nothing there, nothing but that salute.”

“Rewind it. I want to see it again.” Jack pointed at the flat screen television on the wall and worked his thumb up and down against the imaginary remote in his hand. “Come on, let’s go, Junior. I want to see it again.”

“It’s Ross.”

Jack glanced back at Ross and then stared at the screen, waiting for him to play it again. “Listen. The SAC asked me to help you. I’m here to help. Let’s watch it again.”

Jack Miller was in no mood for a pissing match with a new agent who had four months in the Minneapolis FBI office after graduating from Quantico. The Special Agent in Charge assigned Jack to help with this case so he could tell the media he had his most experienced agent looking into solving the string of bank robberies, especially the last one that had resulted in a murder.

Ross pointed the remote at the television and the video started again. “These bank videos suck. We’re bringing in video from the other cameras at the bank, the ATM, the highway traffic cameras, and gas stations within a two-mile radius. I know it’s the same guy.”

“OK, so what do we know about him?”

“He’s on a schedule. March, he hit a Wells Fargo branch in Duluth. April, he was at the Stillwater branch. I was looking for a May job and found one in Wisconsin after talking to the Milwaukee field office. This morning, as you see him here, he was at the TCF Bank in Wayzata. That’s the June robbery.” Ross paused, inhaled, and audibly exhaled. “And no, that’s not who you think it is. It’s a guy, or a person, wearing a mask that kind of resembles a former Governor of the State of Minnesota.”

“OK, so we know what he’s done, but what do we know about him?”

“We don’t know anything about him other than he’s been robbing banks and wears a mask,” Ross said.

“Let’s call him the Governor. He hasn’t killed anybody before, has he?” Jack asked.

“Nobody has even been hurt, until now.”

“Play the video.” Jack Miller stared at the screen and watched the scene unfold a second time; he rested his chin in his hands, elbows on the table. He looked for details as he watched it again.

When it was over, Jack was talking softly to himself as much as to his new partner. “Why did he kill her? He hasn’t done that before. There was no reason to kill her. And what’s he asking her that she doesn’t know?” He shifted in his chair, raised his arms, and locked his fingers together behind his head. “Rewind it. Let’s see it again.”

Jack got up from his chair and paced the room while he continued mumbling to himself. “For the money?” He looked at Ross. “How much has he been getting?”

Ross reflexively patted his pockets for his notebook.

“Junior, just give me a rough idea.”

Ross stared at Jack without answering.

“Agent Fruen?” Jack asked.

Ross nodded and answered. “He’s grabbed between five hundred and five thousand and a couple of laptops.”

Jack returned to his monologue and paced around the table. “So, he’s not getting rich doing this.” He stopped and sat down in his chair. “What’s with the mask? And why’s he robbing these banks? A drug user would still be sleeping.” Jack looked up at the ceiling and raised his voice so Ross could hear him. “Did you check out the casinos or the card room at the Canterbury race track?”

“That’s one theory for the mask. He doesn’t want us comparing videos. I’m working on it, checking on casinos in the area.”

“Don’t forget Wisconsin. OK, Junior, so why did he kill her?”

Ross didn’t answer until Jack stared at him. “I don’t know.”

“Well, what’s your guess?”

“I’d guess he killed her either because she knew something, who he was or what he was doing there, or she was at the wrong place at the wrong time, or just to do it.”

“Tell me about her.”

Ross pulled his notes out and paged back to the information. “Her name is, was Lisa Humphrey. She’s worked at the bank for eight years and had experience in different areas. She was there this morning to open up, get things ready for the day.”

“Did she have a family?”

Ross flipped forward a page. “She was married. The husband’s devastated. There’s a two-year-old girl at home and,” Ross paused.

“And what?”

“You saw she was pregnant. It was a boy. Due in about two weeks.”

Jack shoved himself back from the table and stood up. As he made his way to Ross at the back of the room, he pushed a chair out of the way, sending it rolling across the floor until it struck the wall and fell over on its side. Ross didn’t move. Jack stuck out his hand.

“Give me your notes.” Ross handed the notes over and Jack walked to the window and leaned against the wall as he reviewed what Ross had written.

As he looked over the pages, Jack thought of his own kids, a girl and a boy, a couple of years apart. He looked at his reflection in the window and then out at the world a few floors below. “Damn it.”

Jack walked back over and sat at the table. He closed up the notebook. “We don’t know much, do we? Get the files from the other three robberies up here.” He slid Ross’ notes back across the table to him and rocked back in his chair. “And we need some analysis done. You’re on the right track getting all of those other videos from cameras around the area. I want to know all I can about this guy. I want to know for sure it’s the same guy. Get the geeks on it. We need to know how he got to and from the bank, his height, weight, color of his eyes, type of clothes, shoe size, how big his hands are, and the length of his stride, anything to help ID this guy. Tell them I want to know everything. What he had for lunch, if he prefers boxers or briefs. And make sure those lab guys check her forehead. He had his gun pushed up against her forehead.”

Jack rocked forward and worked the imaginary remote in his hand again. “OK, let’s see it again.”

Ross hit play on the remote control and the video started for the third viewing. His thumb hovered over the pause button, ready for when Jack wanted to stop it again. He fumbled for the phone with his other hand, not taking his eyes off the picture in front of him.

Cradling the receiver between his ear and shoulder, he dialed an extension with his free hand. “Hello, Barb? Yeah, it’s Ross. Jack and I are in the back conference room. We need the files from the Duluth and Stillwater robberies we were talking about earlier. Bring them in as soon as…”

“Freeze it!”

“…you’re ready.”

“You missed it.”

Ross exhaled heavily in frustration, hung up the phone and hit pause, and then rewound the video frame by frame.

“There,” Jack said.

Ross paused the video. “What?”

Jack got up from his chair and approached the screen. He looked at it straight on, squinting, and traced the face on the screen with his finger. The killer was saluting him, the eyes staring right at him. Jack stepped back trying to take in more of the picture.

“Get some stills made of the mask that show it from different sides and figure out who made it, where it’s sold, how long it’s been around, etcetera, etcetera. He didn’t just go pick this mask up at the mall off the rack. This one’s too good. Send a photo to the costume department at the Guthrie Theater and the U of M theater department. Maybe they’ll have some ideas. And print one off for me, the one where he’s saluting. Make yourself one too if you want one.” He rubbed his hands over his face and stretched. “I’m going to go take a leak and get some other work done. Call me when you’ve got everything ready. It’s almost July. We better get busy and solve your case before the next robbery.”

CHAPTER 2

Jack sat in his cubicle and looked at the pile of case folders in front of him. It was time to catch up on his active cases while he waited for Ross to pull the other videos together for the next viewing. He grabbed the top folder, laid it on an open spot amid the clutter on his desk, and started to flip through it. He made it two pages into the details, refreshing himself on the follow-up issues, before his mind drifted to the images on the video. It was hard to watch somebody being killed and not be able to stop it. That was the tough part of the job. As FBI agents, they were brought in as a reaction to something bad having happened. This was no different. Learning that this victim had a family, Jack thought of the father with a daughter at home, his world turned upside down. The killer had pulled the trigger and gone about his business. Jack wanted to get ahead of this guy and stop him before something else like this happened again.

He looked at the framed pictures on his desk. They had been there long enough that he almost forgot they were there. Jack picked up the one that had both kids in it, brushed off the dust from the edges of the frame and the glass, and smiled. He could remember Julie taking the picture last summer. The kids went from running through the sprinkler to starting a water fight, with him as the target as he sat in the Adirondack chair in the shade working on the crossword puzzle. Julie snapped the picture just after he had grabbed the kids and pulled them onto his lap. They’d squealed and laughed. The newspaper was soaked and water dripped from his chin. The trio then went after Julie, but she’d claimed immunity as she held the camera in front of her like a shield, knowing they wouldn’t dare get it wet.

With the picture in one hand, he grabbed the phone and called Julie. His thumb caressed the kids’ faces in the picture as he waited for her to answer. On the fourth ring, Jack was ready for it to go to voicemail. He cleared his throat, preparing to speak, but then he heard a voice.

“Hello?”

Jack cleared his throat again and then spoke in the hushed, hoarse voice used in cubes when the conversation was of a personal nature. “Hey, Jules. It’s me, Jack. Just thought I’d call, see what’s going on. I wanted to talk birthday plans for tomorrow and about the Fourth, where we all might go to see the fireworks.”

“Jack.” She paused and continued in a soft tone matching his. “The Fourth, I don’t know.”

“Come on, Jules. I thought we were still going to try.”

“I’m not ready for a big family thing yet, Jack. I know the kids would love to see you. But all of us together. I think it’s just too confusing right now.”

“Confusing for who? You? Or the kids?”

“Them, me, us. Why don’t you plan a birthday outing with them? Let’s start with that.”

“Sure, Jules. One step at a time. I want to keep things normal. I’ll pick them up tomorrow afternoon about one? I took the afternoon off.”

“They’d love it, Jack.”

“What about the Fourth? Should we make our annual trip to Nicollet Island? I’m sure they’ll have the same family activities and the fireworks display.”

“Jack, quit pushing. Let me think about it.”

“OK. Think about it.” Jack looked at the framed photo in his hand. She said she’d think about it. “Tell the kids I’ll see them soon and I want some ideas for where we’re going.” He looked up and saw Ross standing in the doorway of his cube. “I have to run. Give them a hug for me.”

Jack hung up the phone and put the picture back in its spot.

“Birthday, huh?” Ross asked. “How old are you going to be?”

“Older than you.”

Ross picked up the picture frame. “These your kids?”

Jack reached up and took the frame from Ross. He blew off the dust clinging to the photo and put it gently back in its spot. “Yeah.”

“They have names?”

“Yeah.” He looked at Ross and stood up. He’d learned long ago that the secret to getting somebody out of your cube was to get up and walk out. The intruder wasn’t going to hang out in your cube without you. Jack walked by Ross and turned down the aisle towards the conference room. “So, everything ready for review?”

Ross took a couple of quick steps to catch up with Jack. “I’ve got the videos from the other bank robberies ready for us to look at. The surveillance video from this morning is still being picked apart by the boys in the lab. They’ve started on the stats we talked about to learn more about the guy.”

Jack said “Hmm,” and kept walking towards the conference room.

Ross kept at his heels. “I’ll show you them in order. They aren’t much different from the others. A guy in the mask, with a salute to the camera on the way out the door.”

They got to the conference room and Jack took a seat. “OK, let’s see what we’ve got.”

They watched each of the videos through from beginning to end. Ross pointed out items he thought were of interest from his previous viewings. Jack stayed silent, intently watching each of the scenes unfold in front of him.

“Get these videos to the lab, too,” Jack said. “I want to make sure it’s the same guy. Same mask. See if they can find anything we didn’t see. I know it’s not like CSI on TV, but they might be able to find something for us.”

Ross pulled the USB drive from the computer and grabbed the file folders. “All right. I’ll get them down there. We’ll see what results we get from these.”

“What’s next?” Jack looked at his watch.

“I should look through my notes, finish some interviews, check on the crime scene, touch-base with the Wayzata police.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I could eat. I skipped breakfast after I got the call this morning.”

“Let’s go touch base with the SAC and then we’ll take a little drive and I’ll buy lunch.”

Jack led the way down the hall with Ross at his heels. Jack heard a folder hit the floor, but just kept going. He heard Ross swearing behind him after the other folders fell.

“Hey, is he free?” Jack asked the Special Agent in Charge’s administrative assistant who was sitting at her desk. Her name was Barb and she was the gatekeeper for the SAC. Nobody got in to see the SAC without her approval.

Ross joined Jack in front of Barb’s desk. “Junior, put everything here on the desk; we’ll grab them on the way out.”

Barb cleared her throat and stared at Jack.

“I mean, put them on the credenza here behind Barb. Have you two met?”

Ross piled the folders onto the credenza and stuck out his hand. “Special Agent Ross Fruen, nice to meet you, ma’am.”

Jack chuckled. “Can we go in, ma’am?”

Barb quickly flipped him off and then waved them through. “Let’s go, Junior. Don’t be nervous.” Jack rapped his knuckles on the open door of the Special Agent in Charge and walked in.

The SAC, Timothy Spilman, just over fifty, had a full head of close-cropped gray hair, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, and wore a starched white shirt. He looked up as Jack and Ross entered his office.

“Gentlemen, what have you put together so far?” He looked at Jack.

They stood in front of the SAC’s desk. Jack was loose, with his hands in his pockets. Ross stood stiffly, almost at full attention, arms hanging straight down at his sides.

“Junior has a good start on this. I’ll let him fill you in on the Governor.” Jack walked over to the window and took in the view of the neighboring downtown buildings and Mississippi beyond them.

“The Governor?” the SAC asked.

“That’s what we’re calling him. Go ahead, Agent Fruen.”

Ross opened his notebook and cleared his throat. “Well, sir, we’ve linked four bank robberies together over the past four months. We’re pretty sure all four have been committed by the same person wearing the same mask, which appears to be custom made. It’s a very good likeness the governor from a few years back.” Ross paused, cleared his throat, and continued.

“The MO is very similar, other than the murder this morning. And he’s exhibited the same habit leaving each of the banks.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, sir, he salutes the security camera as he leaves the building.”

“Salutes?”

“Yes, sir. Like this.” Ross imitated touching the first two fingers of his right hand to his eyebrow. “Every time.”

“Don’t publicize that detail. What’s next, Jack?”

“It’s his case.”

Ross glared at Jack, and thought for a second. “I have a couple of interviews I want to follow up on. I’d like to revisit the crime scene and we have the videos from the banks and the surrounding area from the bank this morning being looked at by the lab.”

The SAC took off his glasses, leaned back, and looked at Ross. “Sounds like you have a mask, a salute, and nothing else. We’re not too close to nailing this guy, are we?”

Ross kept his head up, but his voice gave away his lack of confidence. “No, sir.”

“Well, I told you how the media’s all over this one. Keep digging. Follow procedure. It’s your case, but use Jack’s help and experience, don’t be afraid to ask questions and bounce things off him.” He nodded towards the door. “Why don’t you give Jack and me a minute?”

“I’ll meet you at the parking lot door,” Jack said to Ross.

Once Ross had left, the SAC asked Jack to sit. “Is he up to this?”

Sitting in the comfortable chair, Jack thought of his first field office assignment. He was Junior once; a fresh agent full of confidence, wanting to prove himself, looking for that case that would make a difference and help accelerate your career. This was one of those.

“Sure. He’s full of energy, smart, wants to do well. He’ll nail it, but it’s going to take some time.” Jack leaned forward. “This guy in the mask is smart, but he’s cocky. That’s how we’ll catch him.”

“Jack, I know you’ll support Ross and help him out. But, if he’s not up to it, you have to step in. This one is going to get noisy. Nobody likes multiple bank robberies; throw in the murder in Wayzata, politicians will start talking, and Washington will call me. We don’t need that. You need to catch this guy before he robs another bank or kills somebody else. It’s starting this afternoon with a news conference in Wayzata. I want this to be an FBI case; don’t let the police take it. Our spokesperson will be there, but keep this one on our side. The bank robberies are ours and we’ll help with the murder investigation too.” He turned and looked out the window. “Are you doing OK, Jack?”

“I’m doing OK.”

“This case can be a springboard, Jack. Things are good here, not that I want to lose you, but this case can do something for your career.”

Jack was surrounded by the SAC’s hall of fame; pictures on the wall with politicians and celebrities. He had comfortable chairs, four walls, and a door. Jack thought about his cube and his call with Julie.

“I know it’ll be under the microscope. I’ll work with Junior and we’ll get this guy.”

“OK.” The SAC leaned forward on his desk. “You and Julie OK? This job can be hell on relationships.”

“We’re working on it.” Jack stared at the SAC. “Why, did somebody say something?”

“Just noise.”

“We’re fine.”

The SAC waited a couple of beats for Jack to go on. Jack stayed quiet and they stared at each other. The SAC blinked first and turned to some papers on his desk.

“All right, go see if you can help Ross and let me know if you need anything. Anything needs to go public, you work it through our spokesperson. I don’t think Ross is ready for the media circus without your guidance, yet. Stay ahead of this one.”

Jack got up to leave. When he reached the door, the SAC called out, “Hey, Jack.”

“Yeah?” Jack was halfway out the door and turned around.

“Please don’t call him Junior in public. And happy birthday.”

Jack smiled and gave him a little salute.

THE NINTH DISTRICT is available as an ebook, paperbook and audiobook.

Learn more about Douglas Dorow and his writing

at www.douglasdorow.com

Stay in touch:

@dougdorow or

DouglasDorow@gmail.com

A Man Overboard – Shawn Hopkins

A Man Overboard

Shawn Hopkins

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either a work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2012 Shawn Hopkins

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means without the written consent of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Summary: 

SURVIVING THE FALL WAS JUST THE BEGINNING...

When Jack's mother-in-law sends him and Stacey on a two-week cruise, they're determined to make the most of it, to forget about the cancer and its cold grip on their future.

Planning to revisit the earlier days of their marriage, and the unbridled romance that defined it, they'll lose themselves in paradise while building the resolve needed to endure the coming hell.

At least that was his plan... 

Blurbs:

"Hopkins has just gained a new fan. The characters, the suspense, the clever style of writing...I thoroughly enjoyed this book...I find it interesting that the main character was reading a book by Koontz because this read definitely rivals the same caliber of read. Excellent!" - KF Johnson, Behind Closed Doors

"If Tom Clancy ever had a ghost writer, it must have been Shawn Hopkins. Shawn's latest novel, A Man Overboard, has all the suspense and action any Clancy fan could ask for. The action is so fast paced and keeps building to such a crescendo, that it is impossible to put away once you start reading. Shawn has mastered the art of the suspense thriller." - Richard Houston, A View to Die For

"A Man Overboard is a delicately laced story of hope, love, suspense, and intrigue, and one you'll surely find as much of a page-turner as I did. I especially liked the characters of Jack and Stacey, portrayed realistically and believably, and the overall story is one that is so very enjoyable and full of mystery. I highly recommend this one!" - Larry Enright, best-selling author of Four Years From Home, A Cape May Diamond, and 12/21/12

"Conspiracies, spies, action - reminded me at times of the movies Salt and Conspiracy Theory...although it definitely stands on its own as an original and engaging story. I really enjoyed the humor and found myself laughing out loud more than once, which surprised me given the seriousness of the story. And just when you think you've figured it out, there's another twist! I love it! Once again, Shawn Hopkins has produced an entertaining story with substance. I definitely recommend A Man Overboard." - Bonnie Jean, Amazon Vine Voice reviewer

1.

Stacey Green spit a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink before rinsing her mouth with a handful of water from the faucet. As she placed the purple toothbrush back in the ceramic toothbrush holder, rejoining it with the other two—one red, one blue—she looked at her reflection in the mirror and smiled. They were actually doing it.

A chorus of repeated blows began sounding against the bathroom door, shattering the warm thoughts.

“Yes?” she answered, brushing a blonde string of hair away from her eyes.

“Mommy!” The muffled cry came back.

She opened the door to see Joseph standing there with a cookie in one hand and a black marker in the other.

“Oh, Joseph,” she sighed. He’d gotten his hands mixed up again, and instead of cookie crumbs lingering on his lips, there were heavy black lines tracing them. She bent over and picked the four-year-old up into her arms. “Jack!”

Her husband poked his head around the corner. “Yeah—ah, crap.” He stepped toward them. “Come here, buddy.” He took Joseph from Stacey’s arms. “Where the heck did he get a cookie?”

“He mixed his hands up again.”

“That’s gotta be some kind of symptom of something, right? I mean—”

She cut him off. “You left the marker on the table again, didn’t you?”

“What marker?”

She shook her head, not wanting to smile. But then he pinched her butt, and she screamed. “Come on,” he said, “go finish getting ready.”

They traded places, her heading off to the bedroom, him taking a washcloth from the cabinet beneath the sink.

“When’s your mother gonna be here?” Jack called after her. “We’re gonna miss the flight!”

“I’ll call her!” her voice came back.

He turned his attention to his son. “All right, Joe, let’s see if we can fix your face before Grandma gets here and has Child Services on the phone.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed, excited. “Can I go?”

“Go where?”

“Child services!”

Laughing, Jack asked, “Sounds fun, huh?”

“Is it like a park? Or like Sesame Place? Is it just for kids?” The prospect of going somewhere that was just for kids had Joseph’s eyes gleaming with wonder and hopeful anticipation. Whatever his little mind had conjured up must have been something spectacular.

Jack scrubbed the ink off with the washcloth, Joseph’s lips and cheeks pulling and stretching all over the place, distorting his face like one of those carnival mirrors and making Jack laugh. “I don’t think you’d like it very much. Not unless you want to end up in Lebanon as some sheik’s boy toy.”

“Jack!” Stacey screamed from the bedroom, obviously overhearing the statement.

“What? It happens. Kids are taken in and disappear, turning up years later in—”

“Jack! He’s four!”

“Exactly,” he argued. “Probably the prime age for—”

A shoe came flying down the hallway and banged against the bathroom door.

“I’m warning you,” Stacey’s voice followed.

“Okay, okay.” He looked at Joseph, the boy’s lips still reaching for his ears beneath the hard strokes of the cloth. “Sheesh.” He winked.

Joseph looked confused. And then he asked, “Is Grandma going to run away with me now?”

Evidently, Joseph had overheard a few of his father’s remarks concerning the mother-in-law’s disdain for certain of his parenting techniques.

“Well,” Jack said, biting the inside of his cheek while thinking, “if she tries it, just go along with her. Best not to tip her off right away. Make her think you want to go with her. You’ll have more freedom that way. And then, when you have a chance, take her phone and call me. You still have my number memorized, right?”

He nodded.

“Good. So call me, and I’ll come get you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

As the last black smear disappeared from Joseph’s face, he broke out in a smile. “That’s silly, Daddy. Grandma can’t run. She’s too old.”

Jack laughed. “Don’t you dare tell her that. She’ll think you got it from me. I’ll wake up one morning missing my thumbs.” He wiggled them for Joseph to see, provoking another fit of laughter from the wavy-haired, blond boy. “Did you know Grandma has a fetish for thumbs? She puts them in her freezer,” he whispered.

“No, she doesn’t!” Joseph screamed with laughter. Then his blue eyes grew as serious as any four-year-old set of peepers could. “Daddy?”

“What?”

“Why are you and Mommy going away?”

He rinsed the washcloth off and sat down on the toilet, taking Joseph up onto his lap. “Well, like I told you before, sometimes mommies and daddies just need a little break, to spend some alone time and relax for a while.” He’d told him this more than a dozen times over the last week, but for some reason, the explanation just wouldn’t satisfy the inner workings of his young, analytical mind.

With a sudden sadness glossing over sober eyes, Joseph asked, “You and Mommy are coming back, right?”

“What? Of course we’re coming back!” He squeezed him tight. “It’s just some special grown-up time for Mommy and Daddy, that’s all. You’re the most important thing in our lives. We would never, ever leave you.” But before Jack could further dissect the psychology of the boy’s concern, a beep sounded from the driveway.

“Grandma!” Joseph cried. He hopped down and sprinted to the front door, his wiry body flailing with joy despite his fear that Grandma would run away with him someday—if she could run.

Jack tossed the washcloth into the clothesbasket behind the door and walked to the bedroom.

“Hey, what do you think about this?” Stacey asked, holding a skimpy piece of pink lingerie up to her shoulders. She puckered her lips and tossed her hair.

Jack kicked the door shut with his heel. “What do I think?” He walked toward her, hunger burning in his eyes.

She laughed when he picked her up off the floor and pressed her against the bedroom wall. “Stop! My mom is here!” She giggled.

He dropped her instantly and turned away. “Yeah, that’ll do it.”

“Oh, come on,” she said, throwing the sexy apparel at his back. “My mother is not that bad.”

He raised his eyebrows but swallowed whatever remark had sprouted as a response. Instead, he told her, “Come on. We’re cutting it close.”

After stealing a quick glance at the clock resting on the table beside their king-size bed, Stacey squinted at him. “We’ve got two hours.”

“Yeah, assuming the TSA doesn’t spend half that time probing for a nuclear tampon.” He cocked his head to the side. “You’re leaving it here, right?”

“My nuclear tampon? It’s locked away safe and sound.”

“Locked away where?”

She shook her head. “You’re disgusting, you know that?”

“I am not the one probing people, my dear. I am just a concerned citizen who happens to think that strip-searching random citizens in airports is a little too Nazi SS for our Constitutional Republic to stomach.”

“Well, be sure to call them that when they have your hands against the wall and your legs spread. I’d like to see their reaction.”

He shrugged. “I’m probably overreacting. They only Taser old ladies in wheelchairs.”

“That was one incident. But you may not want to call them Nazis if you hope to make the boat.”

“You?”

“Nuclear ‘device’ or not, I’ll be on that boat with or without you.”

“Okay, Joshua Tree.”

She walked to the corner of the room where their suitcases sat packed and waiting. “Hey, you’re still not on the No-Fly List, are you?”

Shock burst across his face. “There’s a No-Fly List?”

Stacey laughed and, hearing her mother being greeted by Joseph at the front door, motioned for her husband to grab their bags. “Come on then, Jerry.”

Jerry was his nickname, taken from Mel Gibson’s character in the movie Conspiracy Theory, the flick with Julia Roberts and Patrick Stewart. Jerry Fletcher. He’d earned the name by publically stating that Bin Laden was a CIA creation, forged during the Afghan war with the Russians. That radical Islam itself could be blamed on blowback from Operation Ajax in 1953, when, for oil, the CIA overthrew the only democratic leadership Iran would probably ever see. But even though it was now common knowledge, the Jerry name still stuck. However, more than being a conspiracy theorist and a programmed CIA assassin with a background in MK-ULTRA, DELTA, or NAOMI, Jerry was also a pretty goofy guy. It was what made the movie so enjoyable and fun to watch. And so, the nickname wasn’t meant to be a “tinfoil hat” remark, but rather a “you’re so cute and goofy with your crazy theories” statement. Of course, many “conspiracy theories” turn out to be true in the light of certain documents becoming declassified, but somehow the reputation of the “theorist” just never seemed to get public acquittal even in the face of the long-awaited proof. The Gulf of Tonkin, for instance. Or the USS Liberty. So, despite whatever he’d claimed as conspiracy becoming common knowledge overnight with a declassified document, he would always be Jerry. It was their friend Ivan, though, who should really have such a designation. He was the legit alternate historian, his mind a sponge, Russian genius his background. But he wasn’t cute, goofy, or crazy. So “Jerry” was left to Jack while Ivan remained, well…Ivan. But in truth, Jack loved the name. He wasn’t entirely sure why. Maybe because Jerry had been right. Maybe because, in the end, he saved the day and got the girl…he didn’t know. He just knew that he smiled inwardly whenever Stacey used it. It was a pet name, a name that encompassed their understanding of each other, her endearment toward him no matter what. The world and all of its thoughts be damned, he was her Jerry. And he could live with that forever.

Absorbing the nickname as he always did, Jack smiled and started shimmying toward her, singing Franki Valli’s Can’t Take My Eyes off You.

She smiled. “I think a two-week cruise will be good for my Jerry.”

My Jerry. Mel never had it so good.

“Mommy! Daddy! Grandma’s here!” Joseph’s voice rebounded throughout the house.

Picking up the bags, Jack asked Stacey, “You’re sure he’ll be okay with your mom for two weeks?”

Her thin lips twisted into a mischievous grin. “Let’s go to the Bahamas.”

“Aye, aye.” He handed her the pink lingerie. “Maybe put it away before your mom sees it.”

“You don’t want her trying it on?”

He looked horrified. “You think she would?”

“Maybe if we asked.”

“Why would we do that?”

“You’re right. Poor Joseph.”

“Joseph?”

She nudged him toward the door. “Yeah, imagine what it would be like seeing your granny showing off Victoria’s secret…and then being left alone with her for two weeks.”

“Wow. I think I need therapy.” He opened the door.

“You’re thinking of her in it, aren’t you? That’s sick. You think I’m going to make love to you when you can’t get my mother out of your head?”

He spun, blocking her in the hallway. “Don’t think of a pink elephant. Ah! You’re thinking of one. Don’t think of an elephant in a thong! Ah! Now who’s the perv? Although, if I had my choice between an elephant and your mom…”

“Your choice of what?” a voice suddenly asked.

“Oh, shh—” He spun around and came face to face with his mother-in-law. With a huge feigned grin, he waved a hello. “Hi, Viki. Been standing there long?”

His mother-in-law, Viktoriya Arsov, had one firm hand on his son’s head, her skinny fingers woven through his blond hair, and the other clenched in a fist against one of her slender hips. And though her face was all smiles, her eyes told him that she had heard everything—just as she always seemed to. That piercing, gray gaze gave him the creeps, and he shivered beneath its judgment.

Clapping his hands, he said, “Okay then! Great! Well, it’s time for us to go. We appreciate you doing this for us, Viki. Really…”

She waved him off. “It is the least that I can do for my precious daughter. She should enjoy herself before the mortal chaos of—”

“Yeah…thanks, Viki,” he interrupted, moving past her and taking the bags to the door.

“Oh, my dear child,” Mrs. Arsov said, her thick Russian accent decorating the address as she wrapped her strong, skinny arms around Stacey. “Enjoy yourself. Everything is taken care of here. You don’t need to worry about anything. Just be careful…”

Jack stood in the front doorway, watching mom-in-law whisper her farewell exchange. Despite all his teasing, she wasn’t completely unattractive. She was aged, and long, mysterious years of some unknown past had etched heavily into her features, but there was still a whisper of former beauty left clinging to her rusted frame. Tall and lean, she was also muscular and strong, and she carried herself like some kind of countess. That was probably the most disconcerting part, the strange sense of authority that seemed to demand fear and respect without any declaration as to why. And Stacey either didn’t notice it, or she pretended not to. But whenever Viktoriya cast her mighty gaze on him, he felt like Cinderella before her evil stepmother. He wondered what life in Russia had been like, what made her leave the Motherland.

Joseph walked over and stood beside him. “Come here, Joe.” Jack dropped to his knees and spread his arms wide, inviting his son into a reassuring embrace. “I love you so much,” he whispered into his ear. “No matter what, I’ll always love you.” He wasn’t sure why he had just said that. “Be really good for Grandma, okay? We’ll be back before you know it. And we’ll go to the Yankees game just like I promised.”

“Can I get cotton candy?”

“Sure you can.” He kissed him on the forehead and felt his eyes begin to water. It would be two weeks before they were together again, a span of time that all of a sudden felt endless. They squeezed each other tight, and Jack could tell that Joseph didn’t want to let go. “It’s okay, buddy. We’ll be back. Hey, I’ll find something cool to bring you, okay?” He felt Joseph nod against his shoulder.

When they separated, Jack standing to his full six feet two inches and Joseph his little three feet five inches, Joseph stated, “I love you, Daddy.”

Jack smiled, trying to keep the tears at bay. Not only would it be two weeks, but it would also be the first time they’d be apart from each other, period. He didn’t know how he would handle it, let alone Joseph. “Remember,” he teased, “if she tries running…” He winked, and Joseph grinned.

Stacey separated from her mother and came over to give her own sad goodbye. Jack didn’t want to witness this one. He took the luggage to the car where he would be spared the tear-filled display.

Jack started the Hyundai Sonata and looked in the rearview mirror, noting the absence of the car seat that had been at home in the reflection for the last four years. It would be transferred to Viktoriya’s car, God help them all.

Five minutes later, Stacey was sliding into the passenger seat beside him, wiping her eyes.

“You’re sure he’ll be okay with her?” Jack asked once more.

She nodded, and they backed down the driveway.

Jack beeped the horn, and they both waved to Joseph who was waving from the front door, Grandma standing behind him.

Stacey blew them a kiss.

2.

The TSA hadn’t raped them or shipped them off to some black site where the CIA could freely torture them under Rendition laws supposedly spawned to protect their liberties…no water boarding, no electrocuting Jack’s genitals, and no sleep deprivation tactics. In fact, the TSA agents hadn’t even pulled them out of line. And perhaps Jack had pushed his luck a bit by singing out, “For the land of the freeeeee…” while walking through the radiation belts of the see-you-naked machines, but such luck had held fast. So far. Jack recalled a story in Miami where an employee was made fun of after the scanners showed off his small genitalia during a practice session with the publically funded machines. He later beat the crap out of the instigator and was arrested the next day when he showed up for work. That was Miami, their destination. And of course, there were the countless official complaints by women who believed they were sexually harassed, being made to go through the damn machines three and four times while men congregated in the viewing room to ogle. If there was any of that in Miami, then the odds were good that he wouldn’t be making the boat, after all.

Jack put down the Koontz novel and squeezed Stacey’s hand while looking out the window beside him. The clouds were large and puffy, and his eyes were inadvertently picking out cotton images. He could make out Colonel Sanders smiling at them, his head fixed atop a tall ladder that was being scaled by an octopus that had the head of a Pterodactyl. Dennis Rodman was strapped to the back of a walrus, and a naked mermaid with cow udders stood poised at home plate with a spiked mace in hand. Closing his eyes to erase the scene, Jack wondered if it was a testament to how warped his mind was. Upon opening them again, he was unsure as to whether or not it was a relief to see that only Dennis Rodman remained. About to test the authenticity of the likeness (along with his psychological state), he went to ask Stacey what it was that she saw. But she was asleep. His lips pulled adoringly, and he leaned his head back against the headrest, staring at her.

Stacey Arsov, daughter of the Russian widow, Viktoriya… How the heck did they end up together? It was like one of those teen movies where the class loser ends up with the prom queen and then beats up the captain of the football team for added measure. Ridiculous. Yet here he was. Not that he had been the class loser, but a salesman from northeast Philly was close enough when held in comparison with her supermodel looks and brilliant wit. She was from another planet of status, but for some reason had traded her citizenship for a life with him. Why? What did he have to offer her? Could it really just be love…or fate? Had Cupid sneezed while loosing his arrow? Or had Jack stumbled clumsily into his line of fire, intercepting adoration meant for the captain of the football team? He shrugged. Who cared? She was his, and he would never let her go. No matter what.

No matter what.

A tear formed in the corner of his eye, and he forced the ensuing thoughts away. Instead, he chose to revisit the story of them, five years in the making and the best yet to come. He had to think that way. To do anything else would be to surrender, to give up. And that wasn’t going to happen. They would fight until the last morsel of willpower was forcibly extracted from their collective soul.

It was a pleasant story, the story of them, beginning almost six years ago with a single glance. Like destiny just set its crosshairs over his heart and pulled the trigger. That was it. No going back. She, on the other hand, needed a bit more than a single shot from an intergalactic sniper love-gun. Not much more, but enough to make him sweat it out all the way to the altar. When they met, just three months before being married, Jack was working the same job he’d been working since graduating from Temple University, and Stacey had just moved into Philadelphia to take a job as an event organizer for a new outfit down town. They’d met at a bar on a Friday night, and everything took off from there. Once they decided on marriage, there was nothing but Viktoriya standing in the way. He had no brothers or sisters, his father had been an only child, and his mother’s sister lived in Florida. As for his parents themselves…they’d died in a tragic car accident on Roosevelt Boulevard when he was just six years old, leaving him to be raised by his grandmother from his father’s side. She had died his first year in college. The only family that he had left was his aunt in Florida and some cousins in California. All Stacey had was her mother—the Russian countess. So after her eminence finally surrendered to fate’s chorus of wedding bells, there was nothing to hinder them from “till death do us part.”

Joseph was conceived shortly after, and upon his birth, their fairytale pact had been stamped with the eternal seal of shared responsibility…with a creation that had been perfectly orchestrated from two genetic make-ups destined to be one. They had become more than lovers, more than husband and wife…they had become a family.

“I want a drink.”

Jack opened his eyes, not realizing they’d fallen shut, and saw Stacey looking down the aisle for the stewardess.

“Bad dream?” he asked.

“The plane lost an engine, and we crashed in the Everglades. The survivors banded together and for three days were gnawed on by monster alligators. We died last with our intestines wrapped around each other and our stomachs floating like jellyfish in the water.”

“Mmmm. Yummy…” He shot a furtive glance out the window, seeing the open mouth of a large reptile floating toward them. “Make it two.”

* * * *

The flight to Miami was uneventful—the box cutter of all box cutters hadn’t brought the nation to its knees, there were no mishaps into alligator-infested swamps, and the TSA hadn’t rummaged through Stacey’s goods. All-in-all, it had gone as well as could be hoped in today’s world. And now here they were, floating on a ship in the middle of a blue nothing with two weeks of romance and unbridled passion on the horizon. Oh yeah.

Stacy stretched back on the deck chair, reclining in her bikini while dropping her own novel to the deck beside her.

Jack ran a hand through his short, black hair and looked over, his eyes gliding over the terrain of his wife’s body. Once he had the geography properly surveyed, he let his eyes flutter down to the title of her book. “Simple Simon, by Ryne Douglas Pearson. Hmm…never heard of him.”

She closed her eyes, absorbing the warmth of the afternoon sun as the ocean breeze played with her hair. “You ever see the Bruce Willis movie Mercury Rising?”

He closed Koontz’s The House of Thunder and squinted over the tops of his mirrored sunglasses. “Of course.”

“This is the book the movie’s based on. There’s actually a whole series based on the character.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Book’s much better.” She moved the straps of her bikini down off her shoulders, her eyes still closed. “Remember that movie we saw in the theater with Nicholas Cage…Knowing?”

“Yeah, I loved that movie.”

“He wrote the screenplay for it.”

“Bruce Willis?”

The side of her mouth rose into a smirk. “Nicholas Cage.”

“Oh.”

Without opening her eyes, she reached down and tapped the author’s name with her finger.

“I actually read Confessions,” he said.

“Mine?”

“Pearson’s. But they weren’t his confessions—”

“So you did hear of him?”

He smiled. “I love you.”

She placed a hand on his thigh.

“Hey, watch it!” He brushed her hand away. “There’s people around.”

“Oh, like that’s a major concern of yours.” She pulled her top down further, exposing flesh that hadn’t seen daylight in at least five years.

The section of the deck they were reclining on was packed with other sun bathers offering their skin as sacrifice to the galaxy’s fiery center. A couple of young women were lying on their stomachs a few chairs away, topless.

“What are you doing?” Jack asked her.

“What?”

“You’re exposing yourself to all these strapping young men. They’re liable to become jealous.”

She ran a hand through her hair. “Won’t that make you feel good? Men ten years younger than you jealous of the wife you were somehow able to catch?”

“Not while they’re tossing me overboard as some kind of savage ritual aimed to impress you.”

“Oh. Well, then maybe I just want your eyes on my melons and not theirs.” She nodded to the topless college students.

“Oh, please. They have nothing on you.” He opened the book.

“And how do you know that?”

He bit his lower lip. “I didn’t—don’t know…that. I…wait, what did you say? You talking about those people over there? They’re men, aren’t they?” He leaned forward, feigning to get a better look. “They’re wo-men? Yucky.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she responded. They looked like strippers with their perfect butts hanging out for every male to see and want. Their thongs were almost invisible between their tanned cheeks.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Stacey began, “take off your mirrored sunglasses, or I take off my top and let the frat boys woo me by tearing you to pieces and throwing your limbs to the sharks.”

“Sharks?” Jack sat forward. “You think there’s sharks out here?”

“It’s the ocean, dear.”

He took his sunglasses off and set his gaze on the blue seas. Some kind of island music was playing over the speaker system, and the serenity of it all made him sigh with satisfaction. He reached over and took Stacey’s hand. “Am I really that old?” he wondered aloud, reflecting back on the “ten years younger” remark. Then he sifted further back through the conversation. “Hey, what did you mean, ‘somehow able to catch you’?”

“Don’t worry about it, honey. If truth be told, I caught you.”

3.

“Your mom didn’t spare any expense, did she?”

Jack was lying on the king-size bed, his fingers interlocked behind his head, taking in their suite. At the foot of the bed was a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that stood looking out into the great blue unknown. The view captivated him. It was so vast and humbling that it almost scared him. Even aboard this enormous pleasure vessel, they were but a freckle on the ass of a sand flea. The enormity of it made all the problems of 21st century man seem insignificant in some cosmological way. People, with all of their problems, died. Wars were fought and won, one generation’s challenge gave way to the next…but this ocean was still here, completely indifferent to mankind’s petty and insanity-driven issues.

Stacey walked in from the living room, and her stunning presence brought him out of his musings. No, death was not a petty concern, whether nature cared about it or not, it was the most serious and sobering consideration of man. Death…it was what made life worth living, what made every day precious—a limited supply of life the very source of its value. Just like any precious resource, the more common it is, the less value it has. It’s the economics of the soul, though try as hard as we may to add more days to it, inflation hasn’t been all that significant. Life is only common to those in power, who see people as numbers born for their own ego; it’s never a common thing to the individual. The problem, however, was being able to get the most out of the days when it looked like the last grains of sand were about to tumble through the narrow waist of the hourglass. Especially when it seemed unfair, that time had come to rob a loved one of so many unfulfilled hopes and dreams.

Like cancer.

Stacey sat down next to him, her gaze also locked on the rolling mystery they were floating on. “She has the money, and she just wants us—”

“You.”

“—me,” she corrected herself, “to enjoy myself before everything slips down the crapper.”

He positioned himself up on an elbow and stroked her long hair. “It’s gonna be okay.”

She turned her eyes from the expanse and set them down on him, smiling sadly. Without a word, she reached down and grabbed his other hand, holding it tight.

It was true. According to the doctors, cancer had been detected in the aftermath of her last mammogram. Jack was half-convinced that it came from the mammograms themselves, as studies have shown that radiating your breasts every year can actually cause tumors to grow. It was a conversation they’d had a bit too late. But it didn’t matter because they were going to beat it. The question was how? They were both highly skeptical of all the traditional treatments, as many of them had been proven to cause the very cancer they’re supposed to treat. And there was no way she was going to spend the last four years of her life begging for death, looking like some sixty-pound extra from the set of The Walking Dead. There were other options available, and they were going to investigate them all before starting down that gauntlet of misery. As far as they were concerned, much of western medicine was designed to make a profit off the sick and dying anyway. When insurance companies were footing the bill for “the cure,” why market prevention? It was a trillion-dollar industry where the top ten pharmaceutical companies in the US make more money than the remaining four hundred and ninety Fortune 500 companies. And as always, everything came down to money. From inoculations to epidurals, the propaganda practiced by the Society was shameless. Like CDC researchers advising mothers to stop breastfeeding in order to make vaccines more effective (vaccines that increase the number of diseases a child was likely to get by 500%). That the Supreme Court protects vaccine makers from lawsuits and that there is even a federally funded National Vaccine Injury Compensation Program that has paid out over a billion dollars since 1986 added no solace when it came to trusting the medical community with the health and wellbeing of their son. But this wasn’t even about Joseph or autism or mercury. This was about cancer and its accepted treatment, a treatment that could turn their foreseeable future into a horror film. So, a gift from mother-in-law, this two-week cruise was their calm before the storm, and though it was never put into words, perhaps their last chance to be happy together.

Leaning over, Stacey kissed him on the cheek while sliding her hand up his leg. Then she got up and began undressing as she left the room.

Jack watched her leave and had to fight hard and quick to reinforce the dam that was keeping all his worry at bay. There was plenty of time to be concerned later. For now, they were going to forget about cancer and enjoy themselves in ways they hadn’t since before Joseph was born—a period of time that now seemed to have been incredibly too short.

He reached over for the television remote and turned on the big flat screen that hung on the wall beside the bed. The channel showed the ship’s progress, a red dot moving slowly against a map. The tip of Florida was still in view, as were the approaching Bahamas. They were about sixty miles away from Miami now.

Stacey entered the room again, now wearing some kind of transparent robe thingy. As she opened the door and stepped out onto the balcony, Jack stared in amazement at his wife’s beauty. Over the last four years, she had managed to regain all she’d lost in childbearing, her body a finer piece of sensuous art than it had ever been before. She stood with her back to him, the wind blowing her sexy veil open and back like she was a superhero, her cape flapping behind her. There was no one but him to see her nakedness, the balcony privately set apart from the rest of the staterooms. Only Neptune could see her…or a sailor at his periscope.

He stared at her for another five minutes before she turned and walked back in.

“Want to take a shower before dinner?”

He was out of the bed faster than a startled frog off a lily pad.

4.

The sun was setting behind Stacey’s head, highlighting her golden hair and casting a radiant halo. The black dress she was wearing was form fitting and revealed enough to attract even the purest of eyes. Jack didn’t need to worry about that, though. Everything he saw was his. He recalled a verse from somewhere in Proverbs—a verse he and his junior high friends had no trouble committing to memory back in Father Jacob’s class. Let thy fountain be blessed: and rejoice with the wife of thy youth. Let her be as the loving hind and pleasant roe; let her breasts satisfy thee at all times: and be thou ravished always with her love. He was satisfied all right. And though his eyes might wander from time to time, it was only because he was a curious human being, not because he wished for something more than he already had.

“What are you smirking at?” Stacey asked.

He didn’t realize his thoughts had made it to his face. “I was just reciting some scripture.”

She rolled her eyes in mock disgust.

“Communist,” he quipped.

“From Russia with love, baby.” She winked at him, leaning forward on the table and giving him more to take in.

“‘Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies.’”

She smiled. “Really?”

“‘This thy stature is like to a palm tree, and thy breasts to clusters of grapes.’”

“Tell me more.” She slid the menu over, ignoring a group of people squeezing past her chair and sitting at a table beside them.

“‘I said, I will go up to the palm tree, I will take hold of the boughs thereof: now also thy breasts shall be as clusters of the vine, and the smell of thy nose like apples.’”

“Apples, huh?”

He shrugged. “Wisest guy to ever live. Had a thousand wives.”

“That’s a lot of breasts.”

“Two thousand, I believe.”

She leaned back and brought the menu up, blocking his view of her clusters. “A theologian… I had no idea. Shall we debate over dinner?”

“About the smell of your nose?”

“The existence of God.”

He moved his gaze to the waters resting just over her shoulder. “I’d rather not. You know what they said about the Titanic.”

“You think God sunk the boat because some idiot said that God couldn’t sink it?”

“Idiot? I would think you’d agree.”

“That God couldn’t sink a boat? That implies that there is a God who can’t sink a boat. So he’s an idiot. Secondly, if there was a God, then He could certainly sink anything He wanted. So he’s an idiot twice over.”

“Wow.” He leaned back and studied her. “You’re my theology. Beauty, love… How can I behold you and not believe in a Creator?”

She smiled. “I love it when you’re naive. It’s so sweet.”

Jack loved the quipping and did his part to ensure that it was exercised often; their differing views on spiritual matters a source of mock-contention that they found entertaining. When Jack’s parents died, his grandmother had taken him in, determined to see him raised right. A religious woman if there ever was one, it was only natural that Jack ended up with a Christian education (rather than, as Grandmom said, “the propaganda the State’s shoveling into the youth these days”—though Jack had found its own propaganda within his Christian education, too). Good old Grandmom, how he missed her. She died the day after he turned nineteen, and even though her faith hadn’t managed to make a convert out of him, he’d seen and heard enough to know that there had to be something out there. He just didn’t know what. But, boy oh boy, would Grandmom be filled with righteous indignation if she knew he’d married a Russian atheist! Sorry, Granny.

The restaurant they were in was magnificent, and if it weren’t for the view behind them, they could easily forget they were actually floating in the middle of the ocean. The waiter came over to their table.

“Are you lovely people ready to order?” he asked with an accent Jack didn’t recognize.

“Give us a few more seconds,” he answered.

“Certainly, sir.” And he glided away.

Jack reached his hands out across the table and took Stacey’s hands in his, looking her straight in the eye. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.” She leaned forward across the table and kissed him passionately, gliding her tongue over his lips as she withdrew. “Order me something strong.”

* * * *

After dinner, dancing, and bowling, they were both relatively drunk and couldn’t keep from laughing as they walked to the elevator en route to the night’s top performance on the main stage. Descending, the glass walls of the elevator gave them a bird’s-eye view of the ship’s atrium area. It resembled a shopping mall with its kiosks, escalators, and fountains. There was even a grand piano being played.

“I haven’t gotten this drunk since Joseph was conceived,” Stacey exclaimed, leaning on Jack and finding his back pocket.

“What are you talking about?” he laughed. “You were as sober as a judge…” He cracked up at the old saying.

“That must’ve been the other guy, then!” She hit him in the chest, laughing louder.

The elevator reached the floor, and they stumbled out. “Which way to the stage, please?” Jack called out, feigning seriousness while crossing his arms and pointing in opposite directions.

A woman standing behind a semi-circular counter that was actually a fish tank pointed them toward the front of the ship.

Jack waved his thanks and then looked to Stacey, horrified. “Hey,” he whispered, “you see that?”

“What?”

“That lady’s standing in the fish tank.”

“I think she’s standing behind it, babe.”

He stood back and pondered this revelation. “Oh. Well, should we throw her a life preserver just in case?”

“She’ll be fine! Now, go!” She shoved him in the back.

“Okay, okay…”

They sat at a round table in the back of the room so that they could continue frequenting the bar. It wasn’t like they needed to be in the front row throwing their undergarments at the feet of this Bob Marley cover band anyway—though had they been closer, anything would’ve be possible.

“Another drink?” she asked him once the music started pumping and the lights started strobing.

He nodded, and as she walked to the bar, he studied her. The dress didn’t cover her back, and the giant disco ball hanging over the stage sent the laser show that accompanied the act dancing across her bare skin. He couldn’t wait to get back to their room.

Then the alcohol pierced a hole through his defense system, and those forbidden thoughts began leaking through one drop at a time. He thought of what life would be like without her. Of what Joseph’s life would be like without her.

A tear slid down his face.

No. It wouldn’t happen. They wouldn’t let it. They would beat this damn disease if it cost them every cent they would ever make. He shook the thought from his head, plugging the hole and refortifying his resolve to forget, for two weeks, that this thing called cancer even existed.

Stacey came walking back to him like a fantasy walking through a dream, the music playing her soundtrack, the rays of light glorifying her essence. She sat in his lap. After taking a sip of whatever she’d ordered, she grabbed the back of his head and pressed her mouth against his.

He moved his hands across her back, cherishing the feel of her skin beneath his fingertips.

Bio:

"Shawn Hopkins is the author of two other suspense novels. His supernatural island thriller, PROGENY, has been described as "Dan Brown meets LOST meets Left Behind," and his action thriller, THE SOLOMON KEY is a future novel of ancient conspiracy that "makes the DaVinci Code look like a walk in the park." He lives in Pennsylvania with his wife and daughters.

For more information on A MAN OVERBOARD, including purchase links, reviews and news, as well as the author's blog, contact information, author interviews, booktrailers, and much more, please visit his website at http://www.shawnhopkinsauthor.com

A Cape May Diamond - Larry Enright

A story of life, love, and a journey of a thousand years…

It was Monday, May 19th, 1975. I’ll never forget that day. The Vietnam War had ended with the fall of Saigon that April, and the world was mired in one of its worst recessions ever. Unemployment in the United States was nearly nine percent, inflation even higher, and leadership lacking. The Watergate scandal had cast a smear across American politics, resulting in Richard Nixon’s resignation in August 1974 to avoid impeachment, and his successor’s immediately pardoning him to close the book on an unhappy chapter in U.S. history.

It was not a good time for anyone and a particularly hard time for the old Victorian town of Cape May. The crown jewel of the New Jersey shore had fallen into neglect and disrepair and was dying a slow death. Once the elegant summer home to presidents and kings, it had become the last refuge of the deposed.

That’s where I met Tom Ryan. Tom was a king, or so he would have you believe, but unlike Richard Nixon, when Tom was dethroned, he wasn’t sent home with a slap on the wrist. He was sent to prison. He was a convicted draft dodger, but one of the lucky ones released early by President Ford as part of his mass clemency after Nixon’s pardon. The problem was, Tom had nowhere to go when he got out, so he took the money his dad mailed to him and spent it on a bus ticket to get as far away as possible to a place where nobody cared who he was or what he had done, a place where nobody cared about anything. That place was Cape May.

As hard a time as it was for everyone, it was harder for me because that was the day I met Tom Ryan. I should have turned and walked away. I knew it when he first looked at me, but I didn’t, not my first mistake, but one that would make Monday, May 19th, 1975 the hardest day of my life.

This is the story of how Tom Ryan and I met and how things never quite work out the way you think. You might find a love story in here somewhere. You might not. You might find a message hidden in one of the nickel pop bottles collected by the beachcombers from some of the most beautiful white sand beaches in the world. You might even find a little mystery, but life is a mystery, isn’t it?

AUTHOR INFO

Larry Enright lives on a farm with his wife and two sons where he grows his ideas into stories and his stories into books. He has published five novels.

A Cape May

Diamond

Larry Enright

A Cape May Diamond

© 2012 Larry Enright

All rights reserved. This material may not be reproduced, displayed, modified or distributed without the express prior written permission of the copyright holder. For permission, contact larryenright@rocketmail.com.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Visit the author’s website:

http://www.larryenright.net

To love, to life, and your journey of a thousand years

Chapter 1

Tom Ryan was never one to let anybody else do the talking for him. There was a time when his friends would have told you he did too much of it, and had you bothered to ask, they would have pointed out that most of it was bull. You see, Tom grew up as the oldest of five children thinking he was king of the world, so not only did he do all the talking back then, but his rule was absolute. Ask anyone. There were only two ways of doing things in Tom’s kingdom: his way and no way. That’s just how it was.

Things never stay the same, though, do they? Times change. People change, and Tom doesn’t have friends anymore. After all, there’s only so long a person will put up with that kind of nonsense, and it’s not nearly as long as it took Tom to catch on. He just kept pushing and pushing and pushing, until one day he pushed too hard. He wound up in jail, and his youngest brother, Harry, wound up dead. A little late, but Tom had finally figured it out. Now he doesn’t see himself as king; he doesn’t see himself as much of anything, and he doesn’t do much talking anymore.

So why should you care about one more person who went down life’s crooked road? The world is full of them, more than you can count, and their stories are all pretty much the same. They had a choice just like everybody else. They just picked wrong. I won’t try and convince you that Tom’s is a story worth your time. I’m not sure it is myself. All I know is that I owe Tom Ryan everything. Of course, he would never admit to that, so if anyone is going to say anything on his behalf, I guess it’s me. His is a story about a journey to a place most of us have been to at one time or another. It’s not the kind of place you choose to go to willingly. You just end up there. It’s a story about a Cape May diamond.

Legend has it that the Kechemeche Indians who used to live in Cape May were the first to discover them on what is now Higbee Beach on the southern shores of the Delaware Bay. They’re not really diamonds. They’re pieces of quartz worn so shiny and smooth that they resemble diamonds. The story the Native Americans told was that these rocks took thousands of years to make the four-hundred mile journey from the birthplace of the Delaware River to the mouth of the bay, and in that time they acquired the wisdom of the land, making them worth more than gold or diamonds to anyone lucky enough to possess one. The larger the stone, the more wisdom it could impart to its owner. The Indians used them as gifts and traded them to European colonists for food and liquor until the colonists drove them from their homes.

Today, beachcombers collect them, cut and polish them, make them into jewelry, and sell them as souvenirs. Oh, they’re nice enough, but when you come right down to it, they’re just worthless castoffs that ended up on Higbee Beach with the rest of the things the river didn’t want.

Tom’s journey began when he was drafted during the Vietnam War. His country told him it was his duty to fight. It was his turn, but he didn’t see it that way. He didn’t want to fight for them. He didn’t want to die for them. The truth was, deep down, the king was nothing but a coward. You can only imagine the things a man like that will try, the tricks he’ll pull out of his sleeve to get out of military service, but nothing worked for Tom, nothing but the one thing he’d never figured on — Harry.

Harry was a kind and gentle soul and a joy to be around, but more to the point, he and Tom looked so much alike that people who didn’t know them often mistook one for the other. The fall that Tom was supposed to report for duty and Harry was supposed to go off to college, Harry stole Tom’s ID, left him his own, and headed off to war to fight Tom’s battle for him. He left without notice. He left without saying good-bye. All he left was a note asking Tom to take his place at college and pretend to be him, make the most of it, and when it was all over and he came home from Vietnam, things would go back to normal and no one would be the wiser. It was a dumb plan, a stupid thing to do. Tom could have stopped him. That would have been the right thing in most people’s minds, but he did what his little brother wanted because, in the end, being a coward trumped doing the right thing.

So Harry went off to war and Tom went off to college again. He could have coasted through. He’d already graduated from college once, but to his credit, Tom did do his best, better than most, and they were in the home stretch of Tom’s senior year as Harry and the final year in Harry’s tour of duty as Tom, and it was looking like the crazy plan might just work when it all fell apart. Harry was killed in action. Now there was no going home for Tom. When he got the letter saying that Sergeant Tom Ryan had died a hero, his life was over. His little brother was dead, and Tom might just as well have been. When the authorities figured out what he’d done, he was convicted of draft evasion, and they traded in the king’s throne for a metal toilet seat in a cell in a minimum-security federal prison. They wanted to charge him with more. Even Tom thought he deserved more. Five years hardly seemed a fair price for a good man’s life.

Funny thing was, Tom was released from prison after only two years thanks in part to Richard M. Nixon, a man himself dethroned and disgraced like Tom, but who also happened to be President of the United States, a man who, unlike Tom, insisted to the end that he was not a crook. When Nixon resigned and Gerald Ford succeeded him in the Oval Office, President Ford did what many thought was the right thing for the country. He pardoned Nixon to close the book on a unhappy chapter in U.S. history, but in doing so, was forced to grant clemency to all the draft dodgers in jail, all those who had tried to run from the war that had become Nixon’s fault in most people’s minds. So, Tom Ryan was set adrift again and washed up on Higbee Beach in Cape May.

That’s where I first met Tom after his release from jail in 1975, in a little mom and pop restaurant called the Dew Drop Inn on Beach Avenue in Cape May, New Jersey. It wasn’t really an inn. The name was someone’s idea of a joke. To be honest, it wasn’t much more than a hole-in-the-wall. There were five booths along the windows that faced the ocean, a space near the jukebox where the owners, Mack and Mindy Wells, set up high-top tables during the summer tourist season, and a lunch counter that doubled as a bar. They served breakfast till five, and soup, sandwiches, and drinks until 2:00 a.m. When the kids were out of school for summer vacation, some nights they had live folk music. Anyone with the nerve could take the open mike and play as long as it was folk music. Mack and Mindy liked folk music. Bob Dylan was their favorite. They even had a framed, signed photo of him on the wall behind the counter taken when he showed up one night unannounced. Nobody recognized him until he sat down and started playing The Times They are A-Changin’ for the ten people sitting around drinking and talking. After that it became selection number one on the Dew Drop Inn’s jukebox and got played every night at five to let the regulars know that breakfast was over and the bar was open.

Mack and Mindy Wells were an older couple. They’d lived in Cape May long enough to have seen it when it wasn’t just a rundown shore town, but that was a long time ago. In 1975, it was a place where you could find street after street of old Victorian houses, neglected, whitewashed, and boarded up, a perfect place for a nobody like Tom Ryan. Lucky for him, even nobodies have relatives. Mindy was his aunt, his father’s older sister. She was born in Ireland, but as Tom’s granddad used to say, she turned her back on the old sod when she married into the Crown. It didn’t matter that Mack was from Hoboken. Wells is an English name, an occupational name like Fletcher or Hunter. It comes from Wellman, which was the job of the man who saw to his town’s watering hole — fitting for a barkeep but not so much for the husband of an Irish lass.

Tom had been in town for about a month. He was looking to start over. Imagine that — twenty-eight years old and looking to start over. Seems hard to believe until you imagine spending two of them in prison for being a draft dodger, and until you imagine being responsible for the death of your youngest brother. If you can imagine that, it makes perfect sense.

It wasn’t a good time for anyone in 1975. The Vietnam War had finally ended with the fall of Saigon in April of that year, and the country was mired in one of its worst recessions ever. Unemployment had risen to nearly nine percent and the rate of inflation was even higher — not a good combination. Things were bad all over, so bad that President Ford pushed through a fairly sizeable tax cut that spring, but what good was that for the nine percent unemployed when they had no income to be taxed?

Tom and I met Monday, May 19th, 1975 to be exact — a week before the official Jersey Shore season opened on Memorial Day and five years after the entire town of Cape May had been listed on the federal government’s National Register of Historic Places. That single act had come with such flourish and publicity and such promise for the once-beautiful little town that it had everyone in Cape May expecting a miracle, a miracle that never happened. Being historic didn’t attract any more tourists. It just added that word to the decaying shore town’s résumé of empty adjectives. The bottom line was that nobody wanted to pay thirty-five dollars a night for historic when all they got was a dilapidated room in an out-of-the-way town where the only thing going on was bad folk music at the Dew Drop Inn, especially when they could spend the weekend in Wildwood just up the coast. Wildwood had some of the best beaches in the world and a boardwalk that rivaled Atlantic City’s. It was a happening place with great seafood, and nightclubs and bars that catered mostly to the younger set, and if you weren’t part of the younger set, you went even farther away from Cape May to Ocean City: a family town, a clean town, a place that wasn’t a dead end. There were groups trying to change all that, but Cape May had gone a long way downhill, and it’s hard to turn around on the downhill when you’ve got no brakes.

Tom was doing what he did every day at the Dew, sweeping the morning’s breakfast droppings out onto the sidewalk, and when I showed up, he held the door open for me. That was a nice gesture, so I smiled and thanked him. That was how it started. Had I known where that smile would lead, I might have kept it to myself.

He nodded to me and swept the last bits of egg, bacon, toast, and home fries over the curb into the gutter where local strays and birds would have one last shot at them before the next rain. I took a seat in one of the booths and slid over to the window. He was watching me as I pushed my hair back from my face and cleaned the salt spray off my glasses. The wind had really done a number on me, and I probably looked like I had just blown in off the ocean. I knew he was watching me, or maybe it was the gray and murky North Atlantic, a sea filled with jellyfish and crabs, and other things you didn’t want to know about. When I looked up at him, he turned back toward the beach, and leaned on his broom, trying to look cool.

A gray sky met the sea that morning like on a hazy, horizonless day in the desert where a mirage of waves laps an endless beach. Some gulls had been circling above and looped closer to the restaurant. A few of the braver ones landed in the street near the scraps and waited until Tom tamped the broom on the curb and came back inside to give them their space. His aunt, Mindy, was behind the counter making a sandwich. Tom put the broom away and sat down on a stool beside her.

“Are you hungry, Tommy boy?” she asked, handing him a rolled up piece of bologna.

“No, I think I’m going for a walk, Aunt Mindy.”

His uncle, Mack, came in from the back, wiping his hands on a brown paper towel. “It’s going to rain in about an hour,” he said.

Mindy looked at him sideways and went on with her preparations. “Oh, is that so? Since when did you become a weatherman?”

“You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.” His laugh was deep and rich, but trailed off into a hacking cough.

“You know what Doc Ellis said about your smoking, Mack Wells.”

“It’s nothing. I just caught a little cold.”

“That’s no cold.”

“It’s a cold, and I’m down to a pack a day.”

Mindy pointed both barrels of her twelve-gauge scowl at her husband.

“I’m not hurting anybody,” he insisted.

“Only your stupid, bullheaded self and everyone who loves you.”

Tom got up to leave. “I won’t be gone long. I just need to get out for a bit. I’ll see you later.”

Mindy handed him a slice from the tomato she was cutting up. “Going to Higbee again, are you?”

It wasn’t hard to tell that Tom liked her smile a lot more than her scowl. “I guess. Maybe I’ll find you a great big diamond today, Aunt Mindy.”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be nice.”

Aunt Mindy and a friend polished Cape May diamonds and made them into jewelry, mostly pendants. They were the easiest to make: just polish the stone, drill a hole in it, and attach a silver chain. They sold them at the craft fairs up and down the coast. Tourists paid a lot for local native crafts. Of course they weren’t exactly real natives but then they weren’t exactly real diamonds either, just chunks of quartz that had been beaten smooth by a river for a thousand years and dumped on a beach. Higbee and Sunset Beaches were the best places to find them, along with other things that washed up after a storm.

Mack planted himself at the counter, and Mindy served him his sandwich. “I don’t know what you see in that place,” he said. “The beaches are better right here.”

He was right, the white sand beaches on the Atlantic side of the island were far nicer than those on the coarse and rocky Delaware Bay, but as Tom pointed out: “You can’t find Cape May diamonds down here, Uncle Mack. Besides, it’s quiet, and I like the walk.”

“Cape May diamonds. Worthless junk.” Mack grimaced at his sandwich. “There’s not enough mayo on this.”

“I made it just the way you like it,” Mindy said. “If you didn’t smoke so much, you’d be able to taste that, you big oaf.”

“I do not smoke too much, you old cow, and there’s not enough mayo.”

“Oh, it’s a cow, is it, you old goat? Is that what you say when I come back from the crafts with fifty dollars found money?”

“Your little trinkets are a hobby, nothing more. The money’s right here, darling.”

“Money? What money? This country’s so bad off that no one can afford to eat in a restaurant anymore.”

“Oh, but they can afford to spend their grocery money on rocks? Was that what was in the soup last night?”

The record changed on the jukebox, and Tom frowned at the song that began to play.

“Well, are you going or aren’t you?” Mack said to him. “Take my slicker if you like. Just be back before five.” He pushed his stool back and muttered his way toward the kitchen.

“What about your sandwich?” Mindy called after him.

“Put more mayo on it. I’m going for a smoke,” he said and stormed out the back.

“Is everything okay?” Tom asked Mindy.

“He’s just worried,” Mindy said. “We all have our share of that.”

“He just seems tense or something.”

“He’ll be fine after his cigarette and the rest of his sandwich.”

Mindy turned up the music and went back to her preparations. Tom looked across the restaurant at me. I was the only customer in the place, and I hadn’t been served. They’d been too busy arguing. He came over to my booth and waited, but I was more interested in looking out the window than in ordering breakfast.

“Can I get you anything while you’re waiting?” he asked.

The table hadn’t been wiped down, I didn’t have a clean place setting, and the menu was still wedged behind the napkin holder. I shook my head. “I just came in to sit down for a minute.”

“How about a glass of water?”

“No thanks.”

He called to Mindy and pointed to the booth when she looked up.

“In a minute, dear,” she said, placing another tomato on the cutting board.

“Well, I tried,” he smiled feebly.

“Thanks; it’s fine, really,” I said.

Tom left the Dew and turned right, passing the windows in no hurry, watching me watching him leave. I could tell he was trying to figure out where he’d seen me before. Mindy came over to wipe off the table and was setting out a new paper placemat and silverware when he crossed the street and headed toward the ocean.

The beach that day was an unfinished charcoal drawing lacking in definition and interest but for the ripples of light on the water. The artist hadn’t yet sketched in anyone other than Tom walking the beach. There should have been children tossing a ball around, or a woman in a wide-brimmed hat holding it on her head against a gusting wind, or even an arthritic old man playing fetch with his dog, but there wasn’t; just Tom on an otherwise bland seascape. I think he liked it that way.

“Do you mind if I walk with you?”

I had come up from behind. I guess I startled him. I apologized and pulled my baseball cap lower over my eyes against the glare.

“That was a quick breakfast,” he said.

“I wasn’t hungry. I told you I just needed to sit for a minute.”

“Okay, you don’t have to bite my head off. Nice hat. Pirates, right? Are you from Pittsburgh?”

“Maybe.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Don’t you know where you’re from?”

The truth of it was, I didn’t. I turned to the ocean and looked down at my red tennis shoes, one with a white lace, the other brown. They had seen much better days. I wondered why I was wearing them. I didn’t particularly like them. I wondered why on Earth I was there in Cape May. I couldn’t remember.

Tom exhaled the way people do when they want to show you how they really feel with an exaggerated puff of stale breath: “Okay. I guess I’m just being stupid as usual.”

It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t answer.

“That’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it,” he said. “It’s none of my business anyway, but if you still want to walk, I’m headed to Higbee Beach. It’s about a half hour that way,” he pointed west down the shoreline and started walking away.

“I don’t remember where I’m from, how I got here, nothing,” I said, and it was true. I couldn’t remember a thing. The odd part was, it didn’t scare me. You would think it would, considering that people’s lives aren’t much more than the sum of their memories, and when your memories add up to zero, what does that leave? But somehow being with Tom just then made it all okay. It was then I realized that, even though I had no idea why, I was there in Cape May on May 19th, 1975, with Tom Ryan for a reason.

Tom studied my face. It was plain that over the years he had met many liars, some of them pretty good at it, including himself. “Seriously?” he said.

“Yes, seriously.”

“What’s your name? Do you remember that?”

“Annie Mae Meeham.”

“Well, that’s a start. I’m Tom Ryan.” He tried to smile. It must have seemed like the right thing to do, but it wasn’t a very good try. I could tell he was out of practice. “I can be a real jerk sometimes, just so you know,” he added.

“Thanks for the warning.”

He told me that something about me was very familiar, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. As far as he could remember, there were no Meehams or Annie Maes anywhere in his past. I told him I had never seen him before in my life. He said that my blue eyes reminded him of his college girlfriend, Beth, but he’d neither seen nor heard from her in over two years. When I asked him why, he said it was none of my business.

“Do you have a purse or a wallet or something that might have some ID in it?” he asked.

“No.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

A flock of gulls scavenging on the beach stopped their haggling over a dead horseshoe crab long enough to let us pass.

“I was outside the restaurant and you held the door open for me.”

“That’s it? That’s the last thing you remember? Not falling, or hitting your head, or something like that?”

“I remember feeling very tired, tired of walking, I think. Tired of everything. I needed to sit down.”

“Maybe we should get you to a doctor.”

“I feel fine. I was just tired.”

“Fine except for total amnesia. What about the police? There may be a missing person report on you. Somebody must be looking for you.”

“No, no doctors, and no police.” I was emphatic about that.

We walked along the flat damp sand, below the high tide mark and just out of reach of the waves, crunching bits of seashell beneath our feet. The island turned north at Cape May Point about a mile from the Dew Drop Inn. Tom stopped to watch a fishing boat trawling northward.

“And on your left is the beautiful Delaware Bay. They really should put a sign up to let people know where the ocean ends and the bay begins. The number of misguided tourists who walk this beach thinking they’re seeing the Atlantic Ocean is appalling.”

He waited while I fiddled with a loose thread on my pullover. I hoped he wasn’t waiting for me to laugh.

“Aren’t you hot in that?” he asked.

“No.”

“Not much of a talker, are you?”

“I guess I don’t have much to say, but it is nice here.”

“I was just thinking that myself. Gray water, gray sky, gray beach, who could ask for anything more?”

That was actually funny, so I laughed.

We continued north. There was land somewhere across the bay beyond the overcast smear of sky and water. The Cape May-Lewes Ferry crossed the seventeen-mile stretch of bay to Delaware and back again every day. Tom said he had taken it once out of curiosity and gotten sick, and then sicker on the ride back. At Sunset Beach, near a little place called The Shack, we stopped to look at the wreck of a ship just offshore.

“From here, you can see the world famous concrete ship, the Atlantus.” Tom pointed at the huge hull stuck in the sand in the water offshore. “Uncle Mack said it sank in a storm, and they couldn’t get it righted so they just left it there. That was a long time ago, and it’s been falling apart ever since. He said it’s a real tourist attraction.” Tom skipped a rock across the surf. “Oh honey, let’s drive a couple hours to Cape May to see the wreck of a stupid idea.” He threw another a little farther out this time where it sunk short of the Atlantus. “Sure dear. That sounds exciting.”

“Why would anyone build a ship out of concrete?” I asked.

“I don’t know. It does seem pretty dumb, doesn’t it? Maybe they ran out of metal or had a lot of concrete left over after paving a parking lot and said, ‘Oh, I have a great idea for a practical joke, let’s build a boat with it.’”

We walked north some more with the bay on our left and a coastal dune forest of holly and red cedar, bayberry and scrub oak on our right. Beyond the trees and brush was a swamp. Tom had explored it once, he told me. It wasn’t very big, but it was buggy and not very interesting, so it had that going for it. We stopped at a jetty and sat down.

“You’re funny,” I said, “in an odd kind of way.” I had been wondering if there might be a career for Tom in stand-up comedy, but I didn’t think people would get his jokes most of the time. I know I didn’t.

“Really? You’re the first person other than me to think so. I take heart in the knowledge that my fan club has just doubled.”

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“Pittsburgh.”

“Are you here on vacation?”

“More or less.” Tom scooped up a handful of sand and examined it. “Why are you afraid to go to the doctor or check with the police? Are you hiding something?”

“Are you?” I countered.

“I’m not hiding anything. You’re the one who says she can’t remember.”

“And you’re the one who’s afraid to tell me why you’re here. You’re not on vacation.”

Tom let the sand run through his fingers. “You don’t want to know why I’m here.”

I got up and brushed off my pants. “Then maybe you don’t want to know why I’m afraid to see a doctor or go to the police.”

He stood up slowly and faced me. “It’s very simple. I did two years in a federal prison for draft dodging, okay? I’m here because my family doesn’t want me around. Nobody cares about me anymore. Aunt Mindy, the lady back at the Dew, is my dad’s sister. He forced her into giving me a job because this is as far away from them as I can possibly be without falling into the ocean, and I guess they figured the beach was an appropriate place for a castaway. Happy now?”

“Poor little Tom Ryan. Nobody loves him. You’re pathetic.”

“Hey, I was happy wallowing in my own self-pity until you came along, thank you very much. Why don’t you get lost?”

“I already am.”

“So why no police? What did you do? What are you hiding?”

“What are you hiding?”

“I asked you first, besides, I already told you.”

“Not the whole thing.”

“How would you know?”

The wind picked up from the west. The tide was going out and left glistening foam, seaweed, and debris in its wake. Tom took off his shoes and socks and waded into the waves, searching among the shells and pebbles left behind.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“What do you care?”

A lone black skimmer dipped down and skirted the shallows, running its orange and black beak along a receding wave. It was searching for something, too.

“What if I told you someone might have died because of me?” I said.

Tom straightened up. “What?”

“What would you think of me then?”

“You don’t look the type.”

“You don’t either.”

“Is that why you’re afraid of the police?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

“But you said you don’t remember anything.”

“That’s what I said.”

“But now you do?”

“Maybe.”

“Look, stop saying ‘maybe.’ It’s getting really annoying. Either you do or you don’t.”

“Don’t be so obnoxious.”

“Me? What about you? No offense, but this is all pretty weird. I used to think weird was fun, but I’m into plain and simple now.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, so I asked.

He said: “If this is your kooky idea of picking up guys, fine. It’s just not for me, so get lost.”

As much as I didn’t want to, I turned my back and walked away.

Chapter 2

It was after six, and droplets of rain clung to Tom’s hair when he pushed open the front door to the Dew. The smell of Mindy’s spicy chili reminded him that he had missed dinner. No one had shown up for open mike and the jukebox was uncharacteristically silent. The regulars were crowded around the counter-turned-bar, having abandoned their booths for a better view of a tiny reporter on the Dew’s fourteen-inch black and white TV mounted on the wall behind the counter. He was huddled under an umbrella in the rain, trying to keep his microphone dry and deliver his report. An even tinier network news van was parked behind him just off the beach, and two midget policemen in rain gear were looking at the water, one pointing to a cluster of rocks being battered by an angry tide.

“…As of now, the police haven’t identified the victim and the medical examiner hasn’t arrived on the scene. Details are sketchy. We’ll have more on this later in the broadcast. Now back to you, Fred.”

Mack turned down the volume to take drink orders, and Tom missed what Fred said when the camera switched over to the studio. He lost interest when a commercial came on.

“You’re late,” Mack growled on his way to the back to retrieve a bottle from storage.

“Sorry. I lost track of time.”

Mindy smiled at him and handed him a towel to dry off. “I saved you some chili, Tommy.”

Tom was tired from his long afternoon at the beach. “Thanks. I just want to sit down and have a beer.”

Mack came back with a bottle of Jameson’s and pushed a fresh drink across the bar to Bill Riley. “There’s a stopped-up toilet that needs attention first,” Mack said.

Bill Riley, a big man who had lived in Cape May as long as Mack, only drank Jameson’s, an expensive drink for a guy who had been a Cape May County cop all his life until he retired at fifty-five, but he had done pretty well for himself. He used to live on Grant Street near Tom but sold the house in January, made out pretty well on the deal, and moved into a nice apartment up on Washington. He still came to the Dew nearly every night, that’s where his friends were, but that was the only time they saw him anymore. He didn’t like the beach and rarely came out during the day. A buddy of his on the force dropped him off and picked him up at closing time after a hard night of drinking, and Tom was the lucky one with the honor of helping him slosh to the police cruiser when the bar closed.

Riley tipped his glass to Tom. “Mack’s right. You’ll want to be able to flush that sucker after you’ve had a taste of Mindy’s chili there, Tommy boy.”

Mindy swatted Riley with a dishtowel. “And what’s that supposed to mean, you big hooligan? Just because you got top dollar for that rundown shack of yours, doesn’t make you the king of Cape May.”

“You’d sell, too, if someone made you that kind of offer, dear.”

“I’ll be damned if I sell my home to a man who lets it go to pot,” Mack said. “Who bought your place anyway?” He set Riley up again. “Have you seen it lately? It’s a disgrace. The whole street’s going to the dogs.”

“Not my problem.” Riley downed the whiskey and tapped his glass for another. “I’m telling you, Mack, get out while the getting’s good.”

Tom took care of the toilet and was in the back washing up when Mindy joined him.

“Are you sure you don’t want something to eat? I can make you a sandwich if you don’t like the chili.”

She felt his forehead, but he brushed her off. “I’m fine, Aunt Mindy. You know I like your chili, but I grabbed a burger at The Shack while I was out.”

“Oh, you saw all the excitement then?”

“What happened?”

“What happened? A body washed up on Sunset Beach a couple hours ago, that’s what happened. Tom Reynolds was walking his dog and found it.”

“A body? It wasn’t a girl, was it?”

“They aren’t saying yet, but you were right there. You must have seen them.”

“I guess I missed it,” he said.

“But The Shack is on Sunset Beach, Tommy. How could you not see all the police cars and fire trucks and such? They’re like a swarm of locusts on the TV.”

The rain was coming down harder. Tom liked the rain. It washed away a lot of things, things he didn’t want to remember. A drop of water fell from a wet spot on the ceiling, thudding against the lid of the top box in a stack of boxes by the wall.

He turned away from his aunt. “I’d better get the pan out. When’s Uncle Mack going to fix that leak anyway? I told him I’d help.”

She grabbed his arm. “Tom?”

He pulled away. “Okay, I lied. I’m sorry. I didn’t have a burger at The Shack. I was at Higbee the whole time and took the back way home. I’m just not hungry. That’s all.”

“What on Earth do you do when you go there every day?”

Tom shrugged. “I walk. I sit. I look at the bay. I look for diamonds. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Tommy, I appreciate your bringing me the stones, I really do, but this is not healthy. When’s your next doctor’s appointment?”

“I don’t know. It might have been today.”

“And you didn’t go. That’s why you were late, isn’t it? You were avoiding going to see the doctor.”

“I don’t need a shrink,” he said.

“It’s a condition of your release.”

Tom didn’t answer.

“It’s for your own good, and the government is paying for it, Tommy.”

“That doesn’t mean I need it. They pay $300 for hammers and $1,000 for doorknobs, too, you know. Do we need them?”

“That’s different.”

“No, it’s not. It’s a waste. It’s all a waste.”

The wet spot was spreading across the box with the label on it that said, “Diner Placemats, Inc.” Mack had gotten a good deal on them about ten years ago when a salesman talked him into buying twenty boxes at a fifty percent discount. They were typical diner placemats with a large two-color ad for the Dew in the center and smaller ads of other local establishments surrounding it. He had ten boxes left, and the last time Tom checked, the only other place still in business was a dentist in the center of town.

“A waste? And what do you call spending every afternoon doing nothing?” She pushed a two-quart pot into his hands and stormed out.

Tom had moved all the boxes to a dry spot and the pot was catching most of the leak when Mack came into the kitchen and put on his raincoat.

“Uncle Mack, if it’s not raining tomorrow, I’ll help you fix that roof,” Tom said.

“I have to step out for a minute. I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going out to grab a smoke.”

“In the rain?”

“Just mind your own business and make sure Bill Riley’s glass is full.”

“What about the roof?”

“It’ll wait till tomorrow.”

Mack opened the back door and stepped through the curtain of rain, Tom went back into the restaurant, and another night passed of cleaning up after people just trying to forget about life for a few hours before beginning another day.

The talk of the evening was the TV’s thirty-second teaser every half hour at the end of a sitcom full of canned laughs and jingly commercials. Sometimes it was a quick report from the unhappy-looking guy standing on the beach in the rain. Other times it was Fred with his perfect hair and winning looks back in the air-conditioned studio. The identity of the victim was being withheld pending notification of next of kin. The police were not ruling out foul play. According to an informed source, there was a mystery witness who had seen it all.

The Dew made pretty good money until the eleven o’clock news when, other than Fred’s rehashing of what they already knew and telling everyone what his favorite hair gel was, and his narrating dull scenes of caution tape blocking off the beach and how you could have teeth as white as him if only you used the same toothpaste he did, there was nothing more of substance to be told. Once he said that there would be no further reports until the morning and that the weather was up next, that was it. You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows. Tom switched off the TV, cued Dylan’s Subterranean Homesick Blues on the jukebox, and the regulars retreated to their booths and nursed their drinks in muted conversation until closing time.

Tom pushed the police car door shut with Bill Riley safely in the back seat and waved to him as the car drove off. Already soaked by those few minutes in the warm May rain, he started his walk home down Beach Avenue. Cape May wasn’t much different at 2:00 a.m. than during the day. Dead was dead no matter what time it was.

“Why do you think that?” I asked, stepping into view from the shadows beyond a streetlight.

“What?” Tom stopped.

“You’re thinking about death. I can tell,” I said.

“You can, huh? I didn’t know you were a mind reader.”

“I’m not. It’s written all over your face.”

“What are you doing out here in the rain, or can’t you remember that, either?”

I was soaked and feeling just a little sorry for myself. “Are you mad at me?”

Tom thought about all the things he was mad at and said: “No.”

“Can I stay at your place tonight? I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

There was a deep sigh, followed by, “I told you I’m not into that. I don’t know you, and, no offense, I’m not even sure I like you.”

“You really are clueless, aren’t you? I’m not asking to sleep with you. I just need somewhere to get out of the rain, just for the night. A sofa, a place on the floor, anything.”

A widening stream of rainwater carried a white feather down the gutter and into the storm drain. It would end up in the Atlantic Ocean, and, like all the other things the sea didn’t want anymore, it would wash up on a beach somewhere. When I looked at him, all I could see was someone lost, afraid, and helpless, and I felt sorry for him, and when he looked at me, I think he must have seen the same thing.

“The birds of the air don’t sow or reap,” he said, “but they fight over the scraps from the Dew and get along somehow.”

“What does that mean?”

“You don’t remember your Bible either, I take it?”

I didn’t, but I didn’t particularly want him to know that.

Beyond the horizon, lightning flickered against the underside of the dark mass hanging over the ocean, and thunder rumbled like rough surf across Beach Avenue.

He continued: “The rest of it goes, ‘And even though I don’t know you and don’t think I like you, I suppose you’re more important than all of them.’ I’ve got a sofa you can use and some dry things you can borrow.”

We rounded the corner on Grant Street. The old Victorian houses on Tom’s block cowered against the steady downpour like desperate refugees with nowhere else to go. A wayward streetlight cast a sickening pall over the desperate camp as we picked our way along the crumbling sidewalk, past ancient weathered trees, to the front door of a whitewashed three-story house in the middle of the block. Inside, an envelope was lying on the hallway floor. I picked it up when he walked by it.

“There’s a letter for you,” I said. “Is Daniel Ryan your father?”

He snatched it out of my hand and pushed open the door to his apartment. Tom’s one-room home had once been the house’s living room but was closed off to the hallway by an ill-fitting door and blocked on the dining room side by chestnut pocket doors nailed shut with sheets of plywood. A faded Oriental rug was tacked over the haphazard mess. The baseboards were the same beautiful wood, and the wide-planked floor was oak. Beyond the sofa, a large-paned bay window looked out over the dismal street. Tom’s bed was placed behind a faded delicate-looking silk screen. It was a nice room, all in all.

He tossed the letter onto a pile with three or four others that looked like they hadn’t been opened either and threw his keys on the dresser. “The sofa’s all yours. The rest of the house is vacant. The bathroom is at the top of the stairs. There are clean towels in the upstairs hall closet. The kitchen is in the back, but the gas is shut off, so if you want to make yourself some tea or something, use the hot plate. I think that’s about it for the nickel tour.”

I ran my hand over the intricately crafted screen. “Where did you get this?”

“It was in one of the empty rooms. That’s where the rug came from, too. Whoever lived here liked to collect Oriental stuff.”

“Where did they go?” I asked, climbing over the sofa and into the padded nook by the bay window where I leaned against the wall to watch the rain spatter on the glass.

Tom rooted around in his dresser for clean things. “I don’t know. They sold the place to some real estate company. That’s who Uncle Mack rents it from. I’ll put dry things here for you. I’m going to take a shower and go to bed.”

He stopped in the doorway. Behind the layers of dust, behind the obvious disuse and neglect, was a beautiful house that could be beautiful again with some attention if only someone cared.

“Did you have anything to do with that body that washed up on the beach tonight?” he asked, with his back to me. “At first, I thought it was you, and I felt guilty, but now I’m wondering whether or not I’ll be waking up tomorrow with my throat slit.”

I didn’t answer. I was curled up on the window pad, fast asleep.

ADDITIONAL LINKS

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Author's website http:// larryenright.net

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3 Lies - Helen Hanson

BigAl’s– Books and Pals – Top 500 Reviewer

"3 Lies" has several elements I found appealing. I'm a computer geek, so the portion involving the CIA's computer issues was a natural fit. Clint, the protagonist, and his girlfriend Beth were both the kind of people I'd like to know, which helped pull me into the story and get me emotionally invested in the outcome. The contrast between Clint and his smarmy partner as well as the difference between Beth and Clint's estranged wife made them look even better.

 Another thing I liked was that the plot was involved, in that it had multiple threads that eventually came together, yet I didn't have any difficulty keeping track of the different characters and threads. It takes talent for an author to keep a complex story with multiple things happening from becoming too difficult for the reader to keep everything straight.

None of this would matter were "3 Lies" not a great story. The different story threads kept me guessing. Although it became apparent how they were related, how (or if) everything would resolve was never obvious, which maintained the suspense. Several twists near the end were big surprises and made the ending even more satisfying.

 From BlogCritics:

Terror has its own vices, where belief creates a certain way of life. Money can even sabotage those intentions, twisting belief of reason to a belief in money. Even the best of intentions change for the ever-elusive dollar.

In 3-Lies by Helen Hanson, we follow the lives of Beth Sutton and her new boyfriend Clint Masters, as well as his faithful dog Louie. Beth is a kind and loving young woman, finding love at a time when her life is not at its best. On dialysis, she has not kept her diagnosis a secret from Clint, allowing him to know everything about her from the start. Beginning a relationship with secrets is in no way acceptable to her or her way of life. If he can deal this this than she understands, he can deal with anything.

Kidnapped in a bizarre scheme by a group of terrorists in an effort to blackmail the Supreme Court Justices, Beth is at the mercy of a group with nothing to lose. Bewildered by the action taken by her family, Clint is confused. They not only refuse to report her missing, they file a restraining order against him as a stalker. He struggles with the enormity of the circumstances as he feels her life leak away the longer she is away from both her medication and her dialysis machine. Without them, her system will shut down, and yet he is anathema to the family.

To top it all off his best friend is after him to come back into the business and his soon to be ex-wife has just announced to him that he is going to be a father. Yet none of this makes sense, or compares to the terror he feels at Beth's disappearance. Not entirely sure of his feelings for her prior to the event, he is now more than ever convinced that he loves her and there is the possibility that he will never see her again.

In a separate situation within the CIA, a young agent Doug Bryant has stumbled on an old code file, one that seems to bring some disturbing information about agents gone missing. Due to his discovery, his clearance is elevated and he is now in the ranks of those with need to know priorities. As he delves into the files themselves, he finds missing funds, missing ships, and a spy in their midst. What is going on with this missing group of agents, and how will he be able to help with his lack of experience?

As both investigations begin to intermesh, the CIA in in the dark about the missing person occurrences, those that deal with the disappearances of the friends and family members of several of the Supreme Court Justices. As every move Doug makes is blocked, he finally finds some of the information he needs to go forward. But who does he trust? He thinks he knows but how can he be sure?

When the leads bring him and his lead together with Clint, they begin to see the scheme as it unfolds. Murder and kidnapping, are just a few of the capabilities of this group of individuals they are tracking. Can they get the information and find Beth in time? When the clues all come together, will they be able to stop this plot from going forward. In a race against time, with lives at stake will Doug and Clint decipher the clues in time?

Hanson has developed a diabolical plot, ones that seems both real and deadly. Her characters, from Beth to Clint, from Doug to the other captives, deliver on the reality of people with whom you can relate. They are human with both strengths and flaws. Overcoming obstacles, and yet at times showing such human emotions, sadness, sympathy, jealousy, and spite, it is easy to imagine the interaction. I was impressed how Hanson was able to take two separate occurrences and draw a line between the two, intersecting and bringing them to fruition in a way that is both believable and impressive.

I would recommend this book for the suspense and thriller seeker. It also delivers on romance, action and adventure, and just a bit of stepping outside of who you are. Once started, I could not put it down. The writing is genuine and the feelings are heartfelt. This would be a wonderful book for your library. I look forward to reading more from Helen Hanson, she has an artistry that is hard to deny.

3 Lies

A Novel By

Helen Hanson

Copyright 2011. All rights reserved.

As a work of fiction, the names, characters, situations, and most of the places are constructs of the author's imagination. If you seem to think otherwise, she will be flattered. Any resemblances otherwise to persons living or passed on is simply beyond her ability to control. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations for articles or reviews.

ISBN 978-0-9832027-1-4

Published by Domino INK, P.O. Box 1614, Little Elm, TX 75068

For Michael, who kept quiet

when he didn’t believe I could write a novel.

Now, my first reader, technical advisor, and greatest champion.

Always, my best friend, husband, and hero.

For MPH, who makes me laugh.

I can’t remember my life before you.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing a novel requires more hours of solo time than it takes to earn a pilot’s license. Yet this story became a richer work because of the thoughtful contributions of others. Those logging the most hours with me, my phenomenal writing tribe: Jayme Durant, Sonjia Bradshaw, Ashley Moreno, and Skip Skipworth. Each possesses a writing voice worthy of La Scala.

Jayme is the professional book editor among my tribe, and the ace of hearts up this writer’s sleeve. Her learned opinion gave me reasonable hope for reader acceptance. All the members of my tribe scrutinized every word, helped me decide which ones to trim, and offered polish for those that remained. Sonjia, chief de-dangler and word technician; Ashley, rhythm queen; Skip, preeminent teller of tall tales: The generous offering of your time and talent blesses me far beyond this single novel. Thanks, guys. You rock in 5/4 time.

Hannah Wright, my sweet sister and goal partner, who laughed aloud at my first attempt at dialogue because it was that bad. Now she is the gentle spur in my writing saddle, keeping me focused and lined-up for the writing week ahead. Did you hit your word count? Did you finish that blog post? Seriously, what have you been doing all week? I love you, Sis Face.

Michael Stamp, whose off-hand prodding to bring something to the next writers meeting, encouraged me to lift my gaze for the top of the next hill. Fans of Ted Dekker or Frank Peretti need to check out Michael’s work.

Jan Winebrenner, a powerful writer, dynamic speaker, and dedicated leader, who urged us to press onward to excellence. She speaks with wisdom and kindness.

As for research, thanks to Chuck Domino, RN, and my wonderful brother (I love you!), along with Richard L. Mabry, MD, for medical information used within this work.

Thanks to Itai, from Zip Aviation in Manhattan, for kindly offering the correct name of the Bell helicopter referenced in 3 LIES.

Patricia Feeley of the Social Sciences Department and Betsey Lippmeier of the Government Documents Department at the Boston Public Library, both knowledgeable and friendly, they provided key details during my research. My thanks to them. As there have been changes at the library since I wrote this, their accurate information may no longer be in play.

To the multi-talents at Tekeme Studios for my cover art, George and Ashley Weis. Thanks for your vision.

Thanks to Liz Brown, from Next Stage Medical in Lawrence, MA, for insight into the equipment requirements for dialysis patients.

My Michaels, husband and son, my heart is yours. You are bigger than my dreams and better than I deserve.

Maybe I should leave out my Lord, Jesus Christ, because His example loses vibrancy in me. I struggle, flounder, and stumble. Through Him, somehow, it all still works.

In the end, any errors, omissions, or epic fails are fully mine. Thank you for reading.

1

The water bead on her chest slalomed south to join the others on the black-diamond run to her groin. Beth Sutton wrapped the thick, white towel around her dripping hair. Both hung to her hip. As she stepped onto the bath mat, the arterial catheter bounced off her inner thigh muscle. She wiped down the rest of her body and draped the towel on the rack.

Clint left her house at eleven the night before with a promise to return for breakfast prior to their fishing trip. Another evening absorbed in unguarded conversation. Their two months together passed with an easy contentment.

She should have dialyzed last night, but she’d fallen asleep too soon, cocooned in fading dreams, down, and enchantment. The evening proved too satisfying to interrupt for blood filtering. He’d offered to help. Again.

Maybe he could really handle it. Maybe not. Maybe she wasn’t ready to test him.

A knock came from her door as she dressed.

Six-fifteen. He was early.

Once over in the mirror—baggy pink jeans and a pink thermal shirt sufficed for cooking breakfast.

Omelets. Everybody liked omelets.

She hustled to the door. The deadbolt resisted. “Just a second.” The lock popped. She threw the door open with a flourishing smile. “Good morn—”

Her chest inflated with fear. A stocky man wearing a blue ski mask shoved her inside. He covered her mouth before a scream loosened. A piece of paper dropped from his hand. Footsteps fell behind her. She struggled, but she couldn’t escape his grip. A sharp jab pierced her bottom.

Her pulse staggered. A needle. Oh dear, God.

Dreaminess surged. Her focus failed.

Clint was coming. He’d stop them.

Maybe Clint would prefer waffles.

Last night was lovely.

2

According to Paige Masters, Clint’s almost ex-wife, he never noticed anything. But the white Chevy van pulling out of Beth’s road caught his attention. At least the sound of the V-8 engine rumbling under the hood did. Between a full-size and a mini, that van never left the factory boasting anything larger than a V-6. Dull and gutless by reputation, the piece of junk couldn’t get jacked during a riot.

A throaty roar from the vehicle broke his expectation, like a Swedish accent from the lips of a black man. While the kiddies tried to give the illusion of raw power under the hood without the trouble of an actual engine swap, this van camouflaged its strength with exhaust silencers. Sporting rear-wheel drive and a torquey V-8, that homely white box could spank a Mustang in a quarter mile.

Don’t say he didn’t notice anything. Hell yes, he noticed.

Clint parked his black pickup on the main street of Clement, Massachusetts but stayed in the cab to finish his coffee while the seaside burg enjoyed the remaining minutes of slumber. He preferred walking down to Beth’s house so his black lab, Louie, could sniff the flora on the way. Beth’s road was nearly half a mile long and ran mostly downhill on a headland. It led to four houses and a winery. Each home occupied five wooded acres; and the winery, fifty. If Clint drove down to her house without letting Louie romp, then for the duration of their visit the young dog would whimper, paw the floor, and sulk.

Clint had heard the van coming before it emerged from the patchy fog a car length away. Two swarthy men stayed behind blue-mirrored sunglasses and Red Sox ball caps as they crested the hill. Probably a delivery to the winery. In spite of not knowing these men, Clint waved, as a gesture.

The men either didn’t see him or weren’t up for friendly this early. Neither waved back. The van’s rear tires spun, searching for a hold in the loose gravel. It lurched onto the roadway staying long enough for Clint to see a dirty patch of bumper sticker glue in the shape of Australia that adorned the back door. Virginia plates. It roared off toward the highway through the dissipating mist.

A beautiful day barely underway. What’s the rush? Smell the flowers. Will ya?

He emptied the last of the coffee from his paper cup and tossed it onto the floorboard before getting out of the truck. A glance to his watch showed the time as six twenty-two. He was early, but extra hungry. Somehow, that made up for the early.

The ocean-side chill receded under the constant gaze of the new sun. He pushed the sleeves of his sweatshirt back to the elbows. “C’mon, Louie.”

The glossy black dog bounded from the back seat of the cab. A wag started at the tail and rippled through to the other end of his sleek body. A drooling red tongue flapped amid the pearly-whites of his mouth.

“Good boy.” Clint clipped a leash on the leather collar and patted Louie’s firm flank. “Let’s go, Lou.”

Louie led Clint on a tour of every white oak, sugar maple, and pitch pine before scampering up the porch to Beth Sutton’s door. A nineteenth century bungalow with the Atlantic Ocean slapping its back, the whole place boasted only 820 square feet. Clint lowered the anchor-shaped knocker onto the strike plate. She would hear the clatter from any room. Echoes settled into silence. He knocked again.

No shower noises. Even if she were in there, she’d at least call out and tell him to wait. A growl undulated from Clint’s empty stomach. Beth specifically invited him to breakfast. He was early, but she ought to be up by now. He knocked again. Louder.

Another full minute passed. Clint walked around to the back of the house and rapped on the kitchen door. He peered through a sliver of uncovered windowpane. The hemodialysis machine she named Dracula stood sentry at the bedroom wall. The doors to both her bedroom and bath were open. Her vacant computer table occupied the near corner in the still, Beth-less room.

The next round of belly noises came with spikes. He turned around and leaned back against the gray clapboard house. He dropped the leash and closed his arms across his chest.

Louie ran straight to a cricket hopping near the garage behind the house. He pounced but missed. It jumped out of his reach through a gap in the carriage door.

Clint forgot to check for her car. Maybe she went out. The garage door lock dangled from the latch. He pushed the solid door in as much as the latch would allow. Even in the low light the small utility vehicle was easy to see.

Beth probably stayed up late reading again or writing. She owed her editor some chapters but not until early next month. Maybe she had her treatment. She was due for one yesterday, but he’d stayed late. She said she felt washed out after dialysis. He should have gone home sooner so she was free to dialyze. She wouldn’t start a session with him around. It was selfish of him to linger, but time with her dissolved like sugar.

Still, leaving a guy outside, a hungry guy—

“This violates some rule of social etiquette. Right, Louie?”

Louie pawed the ground. Being right didn’t fill his belly, and Clint still had to rouse her lovely butt.

Damn. Moments like this rubbed. He couldn’t call her. He’d ditched his cell phone along with the rest of his electronic tethers, and he needed to find one. At this hour.

He was the only one he knew without a cell phone: dockworkers, old ladies walking their ankle-biters, certainly all the drivers in all the cars in all the merging lanes of I-93 had one. Hell, even school kids. He could afford one. He just didn’t want one. Like so many people, most of that crap was unreliable.

Beth’s neighbor Janet Raffety—she’d let him use the phone. He walked across the street and looked for any sign of activity. If she was working in the kiln, he didn’t want to disturb her. The house was quiet, but a glow came from her shop.

The next pang hit him harder as the extra-bold French roast etched a hole in his stomach lining. Louie probed a Mayflower cluster when Clint caught the leash and went back to the truck. Louie scrambled into the back seat, and Clint drove off.

Thirty-five miles from Boston, the tourist town of Clement had few businesses operating this time of year. Even fewer opened at this hour. Clint decided his best shot was near the freeway. The congregation of trucks outside Maggie Mae's Blue Bird Diner lit his hope.

Maggie Mae was a large, hairy man in his sixties with a round, fleshy face. Clad in a red-striped apron and matching cap, his picture could only be completed with the addition of a burning cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth. Armed with twin decanters of fresh coffee, he made his way round the tables of regulars chatting up each in turn. A quiet man by diner standards, he gave instructions to the kitchen staff by means of hand gestures, facial expressions, and head movements—a performance Marcel Marceau would have admired.

Clint found the pay phone by the restrooms—naturally. He dropped in some coins and called Beth.

After four rings Beth’s voice answered, “Hi. I can’t take your call right now. Please leave a message, and I’ll return it when I can.”

“Hey, it’s me. Pick up the phone.” He waited for the click of her receiver, for the happy lilt to her voice when she said his name, for a swift end to his growing sense of loss.

“Beth, are you there? We had plans today, remember?” No reply. “I’ll try your other phone.”

He smacked down the receiver. Damn it. They’d made a date. Breakfast was her idea, and she promised breakfast would be ready at six-thirty sharp. They planned to go fishing for striper and meet up with Abe later. It was nearly seven. Where the hell was she?

After digging around his pocket, he came up with more change and placed a call to her cell phone. Voice mail kicked in after three rings. “It’s me, Clint. I’ve tried all the numbers I know. I’m going to grab something for us to eat and come back. Hope you’re up by then.”

The clank of dishes rising from the dining room joggled Clint’s attention to his hunger. He ordered four breakfast burritos and coffee at the counter. He took the to-go bag and drove back to her house.

He banged on her front door until his hand hurt. She would have heard that. Fear tiptoed through his veins. If she could.

He ran to the kitchen window. From here, he could see her bed and Beth wasn’t in it. He moved to another window to check the bath. The shower curtain was pulled back, and unless she was in the tub, she wasn’t there either. Calm down. She’s in good health, considering. She’s not going to keel over from a day’s delay in her dialysis. At least that’s what she told him.

“Enough of this. Let’s eat.”

Clint turned on the water spigot long enough to make a puddle for the dog and plopped down on Beth’s porch rocker. His long legs draped over a milk can painted with rose buds, cherry blossoms, and blue hydrangeas that Beth said were the same hue as Clint’s eyes.

Yeah. Sure.

He poured salsa from a plastic ramekin onto one burrito and tossed another to Louie. The dog intercepted the package like an NFL cornerback. He hoisted the food around with his teeth, biting it and choking large chunks down his throat.

Clint finished his meal and wadded all the trash back in the original bag. He took his boot knife out of the sheath and threw it into a tree. Louie retrieved it. With each toss, the knife stuck where he aimed. The activity helped pass the time and freed his brain for thinking. Interest in the game waned before he’d done any lasting damage to the bark.

He stared at Beth’s door, but decided against trying again. “It’s her turn. Huh, Lou?”

When he hit the road in front of Beth’s, he saw Janet pulling a large box from an old Subaru wagon. He called to her, and ran over to her side. “Allow me?”

“Why thanks.” She hauled out another box. “These go in the shop.” She led the way.

“I was looking for Beth. Have you seen her this morning?”

“No, I’ve been loading my kiln. What’s up?”

He stepped into the shop and set the box down. “I was due at her place for breakfast, but she’s not around.”

They returned to the wagon for more boxes.

Clint knew Beth hadn’t told Janet about the dialysis. Beth preferred to keep some details of her life private. After the continuing saga of Paige, he found such discretion refreshing.

They landed the last load into Janet’s shop.

“Thanks for your help.”

“If you see Beth, let her know I came by.”

“Will do.”

Louie led him back to the truck by the main road for the all-important tree survey. For a dog that lived on a boat, wooded lots represented the ultimate in luxury. Clint loaded Louie in the truck. He threw the bag with Beth’s burrito on the floorboard and drove off for home, spinning his rear wheels in the effort.

Along the coast road, the surf vibrated with a crystalline sheen. They should have been out there by now, together. He and Beth.

He’d never seen a more beautiful woman. Not perfect, but simply enchanting. Ah hell, admit it, she was perfect. Her bamboo-shoot green eyes sparkled amid her heart-shaped face. Golden tresses cascaded in loose ringlets all the way to her gorgeous butt.

Botticelli painted her only in his dreams.

But beauty never kept Clint engaged. Not like his buddy, Todd. Todd swapped women like designer ties. For Clint the packaging intrigued but any genuine gift remained hidden inside.

While Beth’s illness didn’t seem to worry her, it left him unnerved. She loomed fragile, ethereal, a morning mist that might seep through his hand. Like catching a butterfly, then opening your cupped hands slowly to see if it was there. When they were together, he caught himself checking to see if she was still in the room with him.

He tousled Louie’s furry neck. “I’ve only known her two months. Who needs this?”

Stood up by a damn butterfly.

Clint pulled into Clement Marina and parked. Louie stood on alert while Clint cleaned out the last two days mail from his box.

Merlin, one of the Clement Marina staff, walked up to them and sidled in close. “Guess what landed in your slip?”

“What do you mean?”

“A lass. An angelfish. She came looking for you, so I let her in. You let me know if you want to throw her back, mate. I’ll get my net.”

Jungle rhythms pummeled Clint’s chest. He wiped sweaty palms down the front of his pants. “Where is she?”

“At your boat.” Merlin rubbed on his scraggly chin. “A real swimmer, that one.”

Clint threw his backpack over a shoulder and headed to the security gate, down the gangway to his slip at the end of the dock. This time, Louie followed.

He looked back at the dog. “Why’d she come here?” Louie’s expression didn’t change.

Half the damn morning—gone. She knew they were meeting at her house. But he couldn’t stay mad because Beth was here, now.

He hated this feeling. Neediness. It didn’t suit him. He didn’t want it to suit him. But his relief trumped any anger.

She was here now. That’s all that mattered.

She didn’t stand him up.

She just changed the plans.

She—

She wasn’t Beth.

Paige Masters sat on the port gunwale of Clint’s 45-foot sailboat. Even with the expansive view of the harbor, the glorious Atlantic beyond, there she sat filing her acrylic fingernails.

“I’ve been trying to reach you. Your cell phone isn’t working.” She finally looked up at Clint. “What’s the matter? Can’t afford the payments anymore?” Her third-grade smile glowed with the intensity of a lighthouse as seen from the battered ship.

For a moment, Clint stopped breathing.

In less than five months, their divorce would be final.

Technology and future ex-wives. Both highly unreliable.

3

From the ambient light of the building, Amir tracked a snowflake as it fluttered earthward. It joined a trillion others from the endless Colorado winter that already lay on the four hundred-acre ski resort. At this altitude, the mountain would wear black for perhaps another hour—no more. With eighty-seven inches of base snow and another four of fine, fresh powder, skiers from across the globe looked forward to a day on the slopes. Amir, however, was not there for pleasure.

He unstrapped the modified 9 mm Glock from under his pant cuff and connected it to the silencer. The weapon slid into the breakaway pocket of his parka, awaiting orders. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes and a faux fur-lined hood shrouded his face. The padded clothing belied the dense musculature of his physique.

Amir had seen no one since his arrival, except three guys from the ski patrol who departed to the backcountry. He waited mid-mountain by the ski-out suites for clients of wealth.

He felt the vibration on his hip and answered his phone. “Yes.”

“It is a go.”

“Affirmative.”

He walked to suite 121 and knocked.

A voice creaked from behind the door, “One minute.” Shuffling noises continued inside. “Who’s there?”

“Ski patrol.”

“Who?”

“Ski patrol, sir. We need only a moment of your time.”

A wiry man of about sixty wrapped in a green-plaid robe opened the door. “Yes?”

Amir leaned in closer and turned to his side. “Sir, are you Myron Walters?”

The man looked long at Amir. “Who wants to know?”

“Ski patrol.” Amir flashed a fake identification. “Could I have a word with you inside?”

Myron planted both feet in the doorway. “Not until you tell me what this is about.”

“I need to speak with you briefly about an incident yesterday. May I come in please?”

“I already answered that question.”

Amir pulled the Glock from his pocket. “Back up, sir. And you won’t get hurt.”

Something glinted as Myron withdrew his hand from a pocket.

“Like hell I will.”

Amir swung his left hand forward and chopped into Myron’s larynx. The prominent Adam’s apple crunched under the weight of Amir’s blow. Myron clutched his crushed throat. His mouth opened but no sound escaped. He piled onto the foyer floor in a green-plaid heap, his eyes fixed in an angry gaze.

Amir closed the door then checked Myron’s robe for a weapon. He found a Kimber Custom 1911 pistol with a stainless steel slide. The old man moved too slowly. Amir felt for Myron’s carotid artery. The pulse was weak. Very weak. Amir dropped his Glock and the 1911 into separate pockets, dragged the body into the living room, and deposited it behind the couch. Blood seeped from the injured man’s lips. Amir shook his head. Blood was a complication. He didn’t like complications.

“Hi.”

Amir turned at the greeting. His Glock aimed from within his coat.

A girl. A tiny girl of about four years-old surveyed him from the hallway. Her dark hair draped over a pink fairy nightgown.

“I-, I’m part of the ski patrol.” The rehearsed lie fell from his mouth. He stepped from behind the couch to where she was standing. At her height, she wouldn’t see the body.

“Is anyone else here?”

“Uncle Myron.” It came out sounding like unka my-won.

“Where do you keep your coats?”

She brushed past him to the closet by the front door. “In here.” She yawned. “Where my Uncle Myron?”

Amir picked out the only coat that could be hers. More pink. Another fairy. “He went to make a snow house and asked me to come get you so you could help him. Here put this on.” He opened her coat.

“Oooh. Snow house.” Her eyes glistened, and she stuck her arms out straight from her sides while Amir threaded her arms through the coat.

He zipped it to her chin and flipped the hood over her head. The neck strap fastened up over her mouth. “C’mon. It will be faster if I give you a ride.”

He swung her up to his chest with her back to the couch. They slipped out the front door into the cold dark.

He circled toward the service alley at the back of the building. The frigid weather suppressed the usual stench of the dumpsters. Camp Robber birds perched on the edge of a green dumpster, gathering bits for their winter cache. They ignored Amir and the girl.

“Birdies fly.” She flapped a wing.

Amir pulled her closer.

“Where’s the snow house? Uncle Myron?”

“Uncle Myron is around the corner.”

Behind them, someone opened a door and entered the alley. Amir’s pace quickened.

He whispered. “Let’s hurry and get there.”

He pushed the girl’s face into his jacket. A male voice yelled at the birds and the dumpster lid bounced closed.

They rounded the end of the building where the van waited. He opened the rear door and got in with the girl. Dark tinted windows masked them from the outside.

“Who the hell is she?” The driver craned his neck to see Amir and his small bundle.

The girl’s brown eyes squinted at the driver’s harsh voice. The corners of her mouth set south of a smile.

“Is she even out of diapers?”

“Just drive.”

The girl looked up at Amir and cried. “I want Uncle Myron.”

The driver accelerated slowly over the snow-packed road and took the first turn down hill. He glanced back repeatedly at Amir and the unhappy girl.

Tears streaked her face. “Uncle Myron.”

“Quiet.” Amir said it louder and with more force than he’d planned. He snapped a seat belt across her lap and chest.

Her eyes clenched like tiny fists. Her body quivered in liquid motion with her mouth opening fully in a suspended wail.

He pulled a blanket from the rear of the van. “Here, take this.” The blanket dampened the shrillness of her scream until she shoved it back at Amir.

“Myron went somewhere else. We’ll take you to him. But you have to be quiet.”

The driver’s eyes locked with Amir’s in the rear-view mirror. “Where is the package you were supposed to bring?”

“It was compromised. I brought what I could.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his bag and lit one. Though he dragged deeply on the stick, his hand held steady.

“Compromised?” A stag appeared at the edge of the road. The driver flashed his lights, and it retreated into the trees. “How the hell did that happen?”

“He was old. What do you want?”

“To complete a mission. Not babysit.”

“His larynx was crushed. He was a liability. This—” his head motioned to the sobbing girl, “—was unexpected. I improvised.”

“I hope the controller will approve of your spontaneity.”

“This set-up was ill-conceived from the beginning. I told you that. They wanted a fulcrum. I got one.”

The driver glared into the mirror.

“If the controller wanted better results, he should have provided better information. My orders were to bring a hostage. A live one.”

The van reached the end of the ski resort property. The driver turned to the west. His mouth hitched at the corner. “Well, get her juiced.”

Amir took another few puffs off his smoke and threw it out the window. He opened a leather pouch and pulled out a syringe. “What do you figure, about half?”

“Do I look like Dr. Seuss?” The driver cut around a broken bough lying in the road. He caught Amir’s attention in the mirror. “No. I would say much less than half.”

The drug in the syringe leveled off at the fifty-milliliter mark. Amir shot most of it out the window into the snow. Four milliliters remained in the tube.

He smoothed the blanket over her contoured bottom.

“Get ready for it.” Amir said. He stabbed her through the blanket, through her pink fairy coat, through her pink fairy nightgown, and squirted the drug directly into her pink flesh.

Her little body convulsed. Vocal chords stilled while her every muscle contracted.

Then her shriek ripped.

Despite Amir’s warning, the driver’s head retracted between his shoulders as if ducking an incoming missile.

Amir lit another cigarette and looked at his watch as the seconds ticked off. She fell asleep with a live scream stuck in her throat.

Both men settled into silence.

They drove on through the morning until the sun rose, gleaming over the mountain range that loomed above them. Scorching white glittered back from every frozen facet. A green sign displayed the silhouette of an airplane and an arrow headed to the right. The driver followed the sign.

“What’s the itinerary?”

“We rendezvous outside of Chicago and again near Philly. Then we land in Boston. I disappear after you meet your ground contact.” The driver glanced at the girl. “Is she alive?”

“So far.”

When he rounded the next curve, a short runway came into view. Along with no tower, the airport had no traffic, no fixed-base operator, and no fuel. Four decrepit hangers manned the southern perimeter.

They drove to the last hangar and parked. The driver left Amir to wipe the car. Amir took off the license plates and packed them into his case. He would drop them in a body of water at his convenience. He wiped down any surfaces the girl may have touched, emptied the ashtray, and cleared the vehicle of everything except the human bundle.

The hangar doors rolled open. The driver, now the pilot, yelled to Amir to help him push the Cessna 310 out into the sunlight. Once the plane was clear of the hangar, Amir drove the van in and locked the hangar behind him.

The driver performed a careful pre-flight on the plane. Amir loaded their bags into the cargo hold then carried the limp child to the twin-engine aircraft. The driver stepped up into the cockpit and finished the plane’s startup procedures before taxiing to the runway. The Cessna assumed command of the runway at the numbers and flew off into the eastern sky.

Amir checked the girl’s pulse. Sweat beaded on her pale forehead. The meperidine might wear off before they stopped to refuel. He kept the drug kit at his side for her next injection.

Twisted Vengeance - Jeff Bennington

Twisted Vengeance

~ A Supernatural Thriller by ~

Jeff Bennington

Available in print and eBook.

Published by Nexgate Press

Copyright

TWISTED VENGEANCE, Vol. 1 All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2011 Jeff Bennington. Cover design by Jeff Bennington. Edited by Neal Hock. Published by NexGate Press

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

To learn more about Jeff’s books and what is coming next from this talented author visit www.thewritingbomb.blogspot.com. You can follow Jeff on Twitter (@TweetTheBook), or on Facebook.

Dedicated to those who have been physically, sexually, or emotionally abused. I hope you discover what it means to be truly loved, because you are not “less.”

~ Jeff Bennington

TWISTED VENGEANCE

What readers are saying….

"From the clean streets of Circle City to the darkest corners of the human heart... A brutal, emotional thriller that earns its stripes." ~ Kirkus Reviews

"I have literally read hundreds of these type books in my lifetime and I must say that this was one of the most gripping!" ~ Susan 

"There were moments that I could feel the fear that was going through Rick Burns' mind, through his heart, through his soul." ~ Varian Nash

ABOUT TWISTED VENGEANCE:

Detective Rick Burns is thrust into a supernatural whirlwind while investigating several unsolved murders. In the process, a ghostly boy who may know the killer, takes Rick on a haunting chase through the streets of Indianapolis. What Rick discovers is a maniac bent on vengeance that is unbelievably sick and twisted. The detective has his past and love interest to protect, but he'll need to solve the case and free his demons before he is the next victim.

Chapter 1

Detective Rick Burns raced into the upscale Indianapolis neighborhood, slammed on the brakes and stepped out of his rusty red Pontiac. He peered into the night and watched the crowd gather, took a deep breath and prayed to God that this murder would not be like the others. The heaviness, the blood and the darkness had finally pricked its sharp edge into his soul.

Red and blue lights enveloped his body and danced across the frightened neighbors who had gathered together, shaking and shivering. The car door let out a lingering squeak as he slammed it shut, and then he hurried toward the crime scene.

The detective rushed past an ambulance and heard a woman whimpering to his right. He turned toward the sound, continued forward and studied her face with twisted brow. She stood near a paramedic and a police officer, with a wool blanket over her shoulders that warmed her from the night breeze. Streams of mascara ran down her cheeks like rivers of death, but her shoulders didn’t shake, and she didn’t sob or wail in disbelief.

Rick examined her slow, careful movements as she gingerly wiped her tears. Her eyes lacked the hollow, confused grief that he’d seen far too often. Lady of the house or mistress, perhaps—whatever the case, he knew something about her didn’t ring true.

He pulled his pen and notepad from his jacket pocket and scribbled a few words regarding his first suspect.

Female Caucasian.

Mid-fifties.

Pin-striped suit.

Stilettos.

Short red hair.

Approximately five foot eight.

No blood visible.

September 13, 11:07 p.m.

The detective weaved through the crowd of wealthy onlookers who were wrapped in throw blankets and pajamas. Fearful murmurs and conjectures splashed his ears as he approached the house. The frightened neighbors looked at him curiously, no doubt wondering who the scruffy-looking man could be.

Rick realized fleetingly that, with his tousled hair, wrinkled T-shirt, faded jeans and running shoes, he probably looked more like a down-on-his-luck reporter than a ten-year veteran of the Indianapolis Police Department.

He could’ve changed his clothes and combed his hair, but there was no time for primping. Rick didn’t bother fussing over his appearance. In his line of work, he found that looks, more often than not, were deceiving. His sport coat was a mere covering, nothing more than a show of respect for his position. He preferred jeans and T-shirts, one of many in a long list of professional quirks.

Rick lifted the crime-scene tape and walked toward the house, a Meridian Street classic with stacked Bedford stone, copper gables and staggered limestone corners that climbed two levels toward the slate roof.

He noticed that a second-story window was open and the room illuminated. Shadows fell against the walls as dark figures walked past the light.

“Forensics? Already?” Rick looked at his watch. “Damn.”

He peered into the yard and smelled the fresh scent of glory maple leaves and purple pansies that were at the edge of the stamped concrete. The architectural masterpiece watched over the courtyard and gardens amid a family of oak and sycamore trees that hugged the estate with their long-reaching arms. The fancy contours and lighting looked great from the outside, but Rick had a bad feeling about this place.

The detective continued toward the house and wondered what he’d find. The other murders had nothing in common except an absurd brutality that bridged race, age and social class. He opened the glass entry door and mentally noted that the doorjamb had not been tampered with. He approached a group of officers gathered at the base of the stairway.

“Which way, fellas?” he asked.

They pointed toward the stairs. Rick noticed their disturbed behavior, arms crossed, eyes reeling in disgust.

Officer Carmichael Rozzi looked and smelled like he had recently vomited. He wiped a milky liquid from his chin and looked at Detective Burns, embarrassed by his weak stomach. Rick patted him on the shoulder as he passed.

“You’ll be all right, rookie.”

Carmichael cleaned the remaining fluid with his sleeve and stepped outside. He was tall and timid, not the usual sort of gung-ho cop, and Rick often wondered how long he’d last on the force.

Officer Dave Daniels called from the assembly of police, his eyes weary and unsettled. “Hey, Burns.”

Rick stopped walking and looked over his shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“It’s not pretty.”

The detective observed the dread in Dave’s expression and asked, “On a scale from one to ten, what’ve we got?”

“Twelve. Maybe thirteen.”

Rick looked up the stairway and imagined the grisly scene. He reached into his pants pocket, grabbed a bag of sunflower seeds, popped a handful into his mouth and then sucked on the salty shells.

There had been five deaths in two years—all on his watch.

He swallowed, nearly choking on the lump in his throat, and headed up the steps, slapping his hands together.

“Time to get dirty, boys,” he barked.

His insides shivered.

Rick felt as heavy as a lead wrecking ball, but he guarded his dread like a trade secret. Throughout his career, he had learned what to say and how to act to keep his fearless image intact. His tough-guy persona, however, had begun to wear thin, internally breaking down with each successive homicide. He took a deep breath and his heart raced in anticipation of the unknown.

As he walked up the stairs he marveled at the beauty and extravagance of the large home. Each hardwood step curved at precisely the right arc, painstakingly shaped to fit between honed spindles.

A large crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling and twisted gently with the air current, leaving a trail of sparkling diamonds that glittered on the mahogany walls. He could only dream of living in such extravagance. His hand slid up the wooden railing and his shoes shuffled up each curved step. He listened to the walls, to their sorrowful tales, reflecting upon the cold beauty of everything perfectly in place.

Rick popped more sunflower seeds into his mouth. Chewing calmed his nerves. Catching the details saved his ass. Seeds, gum, pens and fingernails were all fair game. He chewed on anything to keep his fears at bay—fears that had haunted him from his youth, dreams unexplained, lingering, warring among his many troubles.

As he continued up the stairway, the sound of busy footsteps echoed from down the hall to the right and a putrid stench rose into his nostrils, eliciting his gag reflex. By the strength of the odor, he figured it was a two- or three-day-old corpse. He grabbed a handkerchief from his coat pocket and covered his mouth.

Sergeant Pete Gains lurched out of the room, gasping for air. He was dressed in a triple-X suit and tie, always navy blue. The sergeant’s forehead dripped with sweat. His chest pumped and his throat wheezed as he exited the bedroom door, covering his mouth with a dust mask. He plopped his right hand down on Rick’s shoulder and said, “Burns, where’ve you been?”

“Sorry, boss,” Rick mumbled through the cloth. “It’s bingo night. There was a triple winner when I got the call. Didn’t hear till after things had calmed down.”

Sergeant Gains waved his arm, directing the detective into the master bedroom, as he walked forward.

“Bingo? What’s wrong with you, Burns? Ever heard of poker?”

Rick smirked and said, “Ever heard of love?”

“Me? No,” Pete said, laughing. “But Stella, she sure the hell isn’t gonna marry you because you bring her to the bingo hall. Didn’t think of that, did you?”

Rick rolled his eyes and spit a shell into his hand. He knew why marriage wasn’t in the cards for them, but it had nothing to do with bingo.

“I’ll tell you what you need, Burns. You need to be domesticated. You’re a mess. Look at yourself. Your hair looks like you just woke up, your clothes never match and your apartment’s a wreck.”

Pete took a quick glance at Rick and said, “At least you’re wearing a jacket, for God’s sake.”

Rick patted Pete’s belly. “Yeah, well, we all have our vices, don’t we, Pete?”

Pete sneered and followed Rick into the master bedroom.

Rick gasped. “Oh my God.”

Nausea permeated his senses, but the sight grabbed his eyes and wouldn’t let go, pulling him closer to the corpse. His pupils widened in horror as his gaze rose slowly from the bloodied king-sized bed to the ceiling. A shape resembling a body lay in the center of the four-poster, blackened and burst open. Only the head and limbs remained.

The bloody mass lay dead center in purged decomposition fluids, with liquefied tissues and hungry, feasting maggots. The torso appeared to have exploded over an area of about twelve feet in diameter. Thick drops of dried blood still hung from the ceiling. Bits and pieces of a millionaire were splashed upward in a grotesque splattering of rotting flesh and silk pajamas.

“What in God’s name happened?” asked Rick.

Pete coughed. His eyes watered.

“You tell me, Burns. They don’t call you the ghost detective for nothing.”

Rick rolled his eyes and shook his head. He knew what Pete meant. Rick had been assigned to all of the recently unsolved cases. It’s not that he didn’t find every shred of evidence. There just wasn’t anything to go on. Rick’s peers started calling him the ghost detective because the perpetrators seemed to vanish into thin air like a morning mist.

Detective Burns and Sergeant Gains moved deeper into the room. Rick evaluated the crime scene and proceeded to write down his thoughts.

Exceptional lighting.

Floor-to-ceiling windows.

White walls.

Very little splatter except for the ceiling.

The lack of dripped or splattered blood across the floor seemed unusual for such a gruesome scene. He thought there should be more blood. There were no signs of a struggle.

He felt light-headed.

Rick ignored the dizzy feeling and looked at Pete, and asked, “Who the hell cleaned up in here, Sarge?”

“No one. This is it. What you see is what you—”

Pete grabbed Rick’s shoulder. “You okay, Burns?”

Rick’s eyes dilated and his head wobbled slightly. He pressed his hand to his chest, and his heart hammered at his rib cage. The scene, the smell and the maggots had finally gotten to him.

“I’m fine. Just—” He stopped a thrusting dry heave mid-throat. “I’m just a little nauseated.”

Rick bent over to catch his breath. He closed his eyes and the memory of his mother’s accident leaped upon his thoughts, sending a chill through his body, and then vanished like a skillful prowler. He knew he had to shake it off. He stood up and blew out a stress-relieving exhalation.

He silently advised himself to get in the game. He had to snap out of it. He had to focus.

“So, was it a bomb?” asked Rick, still feeling a nervous shake in his legs. “You know, something small?”

“Don’t think so,” said Pete. “No sign of sulfur or any other explosive material, and no damage to the mattress. Forensics is looking into it though, and the autopsy will eliminate any doubt, but so far, no sign of anything, really.”

Pete crossed his arms and nodded toward the body. “He’s all we’ve got.”

Rick looked at one of the forensic investigators kneeling beside the bed and asked, “Any bullet holes or weapons?”

The investigator stopped dusting and said, “No.”

“Shells?”

“Not one,” said Zeek, the lead forensic analyst.

“Prints? Hair? Anything?”

“Yeah,” said Pete. “We’ve got three separate sets of prints, but that’s it. Have to get back with you on those.”

Rick crouched down beside the bed and studied the body.

“Were the blinds open when you got here?” asked Rick.

“Closed,” said Pete. “One of the neighbors said she sits on her front porch every night. She said the window blinds are always closed. She didn’t see anything.”

Pete handed Rick a pair of latex gloves. He slipped them on with a rubbery smack and eyed the crater in the body, moving on to the victim’s face, careful to not touch anything.

Rick grimaced and whispered to himself, “No sign of lacerations anywhere or contusions to the head. The flesh and entrails simply opened and sprayed upward … like an erupting volcano.”

Rick stood up and faced Sergeant Gains. “I don’t get it, Pete.”

“Pfft. Who does?” The sergeant threw his hands in the air, miffed. “See … it’s like I told you the last time.”

“What?” Rick glared at Pete. “You’re still thinking paranormal?”

Pete pulled Rick aside and whispered, “Listen, Burns. We’ve been here for three hours and we haven’t found anything. Just like the other five. And this place is starting to creep me out. I don’t know what it is, but something isn’t right.”

Rick sighed. “Well, I was thinking something more like a spouse or a love triangle.”

“Spouse? Did you see that lady out there? She’s distraught!”

“Not hardly, Pete.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean she killed him.”

“And just because she’s attractive doesn’t mean she didn’t.”

Pete glared at Rick.

Rick grinned and said, “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

Pete sneered and turned his eyes toward the body, with fear washing over his face.

Rick nudged him with his elbow. “You’re too superstitious, boss.”

Pete shook his head as he stared at the bloody mess. “Can you blame me?”

Rick looked at the body, shaking his head, running the possibilities through his mind.

He didn’t know what to say. He preferred to avoid supernatural solutions. It’s not that he didn’t want to believe; he simply couldn’t trust spiritual answers. He needed tangible evidence.

Rick circled the bed and shuffled through the chest of drawers.

“Victoria’s Secret,” he said quietly to himself. “Nice.” He closed the drawer and asked, “What do we know about the wife, anyway?”

Pete walked around the bed, squinting as he passed. “She found the body. Just returned from a business trip in Vegas. Cosmetics convention. She was a VIP. Besides, we’ve got video from their surveillance cameras. The boys looked at the tapes, and no one entered or exited the premises all week except Mount Rushmore here. And since he’s been dead for three days, you can check the wife off your list you got going there.”

“Hmm.” Rick opened the drawer on the marble-topped nightstand and observed its contents. “Any witnesses?”

Pete nodded. “One of the neighbors reported seeing a boy playing in the yard a couple of days ago, but that’s it.”

Rick turned. “A boy?”

“That’s right. But he didn’t show up on the tapes.”

“We’ll have to keep looking for him,” said Rick. “Oh, and bring in the wife and neighbor, too. I’ll stay here. Maybe I’ll get lucky and find something.”

“I hope so,” said Pete. “This is getting old.”

“Or maybe the killers are catching up with technology and we’re behind the times,” replied Rick.

Pete laughed. “Like cyber-bullying? You think we’ve got a cyber–serial killer?”

“Not necessarily. I just think there’s a rational explanation.”

“Like what … a serial-killing fairy who flies in, knocks off the victim and flutters away unseen?”

Rick couldn’t help smirking. “Yeah. That’s what I was thinking, Pete. A fairy.” He shook his head and said, “You need to see a shrink, Pete. And I need to spend some time here alone.”

Pete walked toward the door. “Be my guest, bingo boy.”

Rick chuckled and returned to shuffling through the small drawer, then closed it.

“Call me when you get the wife and that neighbor rounded up, will ya, Pete?”

“Sure thing.” Pete coughed. “And Burns?”

“Sarge?”

“Lay off the bingo. We’ve got plenty to do around here.”

The detective laughed.

He knew Pete didn’t get him. Everything Rick knew about life, he learned from bingo: keep your eyes peeled, listen carefully and keep going, even in a drought. If he did those things, then one of these days, bingo!

***

Sergeant Gains dispatched his officers, and Rick stayed behind. He ran his hands against the walls as he strolled around the perimeter of the room, analyzing each fixture, piece of artwork and article of clothing. He pulled a wallet out of a pair of slacks that were tossed on a Barcalounger and examined the driver’s license.

Frank J. Bertrum. Born 8-23-1946.

Rick scanned the picture and couldn’t help but notice that Frank was a good-looking fellow. Thinking back, he remembered that he had a nice-looking wife, too. He wondered what was missing? Was the guy an adulterer? A manipulator? Or a control—

The detective’s thoughts were interrupted, distracted by a bloody red trail that he noticed out of the corner of his eye.

He squinted.

He wondered why he hadn’t seen that before.

“Sarge, you still here?”

Silence.

Rick turned his eyes back to the floor.

Footprints?

Little feet?

“Where did you come from?” he asked himself with a giggle in his voice.

Rick knelt down and lifted the crusty comforter and peeked under the bed—nothing but dust bunnies. He stood up and followed the impressions. The tiny tracks pooled, still shimmering wet. He curiously shadowed the prints as they made their way out of the room, into the hall and faded as they descended down the stairway.

He stood among the dancing diamonds, staring at the tangible evidence, and scratched his head in wonderment. He questioned how he and everyone else had missed the footprints.

He pulled out his cell phone and snapped a few pictures, but they weren’t quality images. There was only a shadow where there should have been bloody footprints.

“Shit.” His voice echoed through the mammoth structure.

He charged down the stairs.

There’s got to be an office in here, a ruler … something, he thought.

He tripped on the Persian rug in the foyer, crashed to the floor and grunted as he forced himself back up. He burst through the French doors leading to the library and rummaged through the drawers until he found a twelve-inch ruler. He lifted it into the air as if presenting King Arthur’s sword and briefly glanced at the pictures displayed on the many shelves.

“Nice family. What a shame.” He looked back at the ruler. “Thank you, Frank. God bless you, brother.”

He sprinted out of the office, ran back up the stairs and placed the ruler next to one of the footprints. “How big are you, little feet?” he asked. “Let’s see … five, five and a quarter inches.”

Rick’s mind launched into an analytical frenzy as he studied the new evidence. He figured it could be the same boy the neighbor saw. He observed how the feet pressed heavy on the heels. He thought it could be a five- or six-year-old, perhaps—a boy maybe, but not a killer. Not like that. No way. He could be an eyewitness, sure, but not a murderer.

He stared at the prints and realized that he finally had something to go on.

He opened his cell phone and dialed Pete’s number, then removed one of the gloves and stuck his finger in his mouth to pull out a wad of desalted shells. He stuffed them in his coat pocket to avoid soiling the crime scene.

“Gains here.”

“Pete, y-you gotta get back here!”

“Whaddya got, Burns?”

“Footprints. Bloody—footprints—kid-sized.”

“Where?”

“In the bedroom, by the bed and hall and stairs.”

“What? I don’t think so. I didn’t see anything like that.”

“Neither did I. We overlooked them somehow. I don’t understand it myself. But you’ve got to see them. They’re perfect. They’re—wait. Oh God. No!” Rick lost sight of the tracks and bent down, fraught with hysteria, and rubbed the wooden steps, frantically scanning for the trail that was once there.

“They were here, Sarge. I swear. About thirty prints.”

“Burns?”

“Five and a quarter inches. I measured them myself. Shit. They disappeared.” Rick nervously ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head in frustration.

“Burns?” persisted Gains. “Come on in to the station. We’ve got the wife and neighbor.”

“What about the boy?”

“No luck. We’ll have to work with what we’ve got.”

Rick rubbed his eyes, blinked hard to regain his focus and studied each step one last time, crawling on his hands and knees, hoping to see a trace of the prints. He searched every room of the house, but found nothing. The blood had disappeared.

“Where’d you go, damn it?” He gagged as he passed by the master bedroom and slammed the palm of his hand against the wall. “Oh, that smell.”

***

Rick flipped open his notepad, jotted down his findings and left the house, weighed down by defeat and a heaviness he had grown familiar with. The ghost detective had doubts. The unbelievable and mysterious things of the world always left him shaking with uncertainty, causing him to revisit his past—his nightmares.

He needed to chew. The seeds were gone, but there was always his pen, deformed and twisted at the end. The tension in his mind beat him down, testing his belief system, a system based on a bet, a simple game.

“Burns,” he said to himself as he started his Pontiac. “You know what you saw. You’re not crazy. Not yet, anyway.”

The engine roared, the pen crunched in his mouth and five-inch bloody footprints embedded in his mind like a sunspot in the eyes. They wouldn’t go away. They lingered and festered in his brain. A young witness to the Bertrum murder had escaped detection, hiding and terror-stricken. He could feel it, sense it, taste it.

Chapter 2

“This way, Burns.”

Sergeant Gains led the detective through the police station and into the interrogation room to speak with Mrs. Bertrum. Pete raised his brow and smirked. “She’s all yours.” He leaned toward Rick and whispered, “Good luck with that one. She’s somethin’ else.”

Rick noticed the beads of sweat that escaped from Pete’s forehead.

“Thanks, Pete. I think I can handle her.”

Pete winked and nudged Rick inside, pressing him forward with his thick arms.

Rick’s lips bent in a nervous grin. He hated post-homicide interviews with the survivors. They were always uncomfortable and usually hurtful to the family. But regardless of how he felt, he had to do his job.

He opened the door and saw Mrs. Bertrum standing across the room, holding a pocket mirror to her face and applying a fresh coat of blood-red lipstick. She turned toward Rick and said, “Oh, there you are. Is it time to interrogate me now?” She tucked the lipstick away and snapped her purse shut.

Detective Burns shook his head. “No, ma’am. I just need to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

Rick walked into the room and pushed a flesh-colored folding chair out of his way, tucking it neatly under the table. He reached out his hand. “I’m Detective Rick Burns.” She ignored his gesture and turned toward the large mirror on the north wall.

He noticed the woman’s nose and eyes flinch whenever she inhaled the musty air. The room smelled of sweat and dingy clothes because of the many hardened criminals that had smeared their soiled and malodorous clothing against the chairs and walls.

“This shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, ma’am. I’ll try to make this as painless as possible.”

“Good.”

She licked her lips with revulsion, as if tasting the filth, and then flipped a stray hair away from her face. “My lawyer’s on his way, so don’t get your hopes up.” She tucked her hair behind her ears and strolled toward the table like a runway model, hips swinging, heels clicking. “Good Lord, what’s wrong with you people? My husband was murdered, for God’s sake, and you’ve got me locked up?”

Rick gestured toward the chair and pulled it out. “Why don’t you have a seat, ma’am? I have to go over a few standard questions, and then you can go home.”

She turned her head and sneered, “Home?”

When Rick realized what he had said, he added, “Or someplace safe. We can help you with that.”

He felt terrible about questioning her at the time of her loss, but it had to be done. He had to cover all his bases, no matter how difficult it was for him or Mrs. Bertrum.

She sat down and crossed her legs. Her pin-striped ensemble fit snugly across her hips, and a silky white button-up stretched enticingly downward, revealing the last good years of her sensuality.

“Would you care for something to drink?” asked Rick.

“Yes, please,” she said. “Dirty martini, if you don’t mind.”

“Uh … well,” Rick faltered, shocked by her audacity. “We’ll do what we can.” He looked at the one-way mirror and snapped his fingers, directing one of the observers to meet her request.

He then turned his attention back to Mrs. Bertrum, fumbling through his pockets, searching for his pen and notepad. The detective sat down in a chair on the other side of the table, licked his thumb and turned to a clean page in the pad.

“Would you mind telling me a little about your husband while one of the officers gets your drink? You know, what he was like, so I can get a feel for who may have done this.”

“Oh gawd. That’s an easy one.” She removed a nail file from her purse and started filing. She chuckled and examined her fingers. “Bet you spent weeks practicing the delivery of that one in the academy.”

“Pardon me?”

“Oh, never mind!”

She rolled her eyes and swooshed her hand and file over her head, indicating his ignorance, even though he understood her point.

“What do you want to know about the old bastard, anyway?”

Rick remained calm, but he wanted to scream, What’s with the attitude, lady? I’m trying to help here. Instead, he asked, “What was he like?”

Her eyes snapped toward Rick. “To me, or to everyone else?”

“To you.”

She stopped filing.

“Okay … What’d you say your name was?”

Rick cleared his throat and sat up in his chair.

“Detective Burns.”

He gripped his pen, ready to write.

“Okay, Detective Burns,” she said. “To me, Frank was cruel and angry and a cold son of a bitch. The older we’ve grown, the farther we’ve pulled apart. He loved me and hated me, and I’ve got the scars to prove it. I used to be his hairstylist long ago. After I became his sex toy, we married and I graduated to punching bag.”

Rick edged forward. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bertrum.”

“Hell, don’t feel sorry for me. I’m not the one with my guts splashed on the bedroom ceiling.” She checked her watch. “Anyway, professionally, he used to have lots of friends, associates and golf partners; you know the type.”

Rick nodded.

“He was in sports marketing and knew all the players in television, radio, publishing, the athletes, the franchise owners, everyone. I guess you could say he lived his dream, a dream that started with playing basketball at Indiana University and ended in the heart of Indiana professional sports. He golfed with Larry Bird and was Peyton Manning’s agent for a short time. Did you know that? It was only an interim arrangement, but exciting nonetheless.”

She looked away for a moment, and her eyes pooled with water. Rick handed her a tissue and she sopped up the tears.

“He made me rich, you know. I was still a young cosmetologist when I created a facial base to cover all the bruises he gave me. Abused women and men buy it like candy—have for years.” Her eyes drifted off in search of lost memories.

Rick’s mouth opened, shocked.

“I … I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bertrum.”

She sat still, thinking, staring at the tabletop.

Rick cleared his throat. “Mrs. Bertrum?”

“Oh.” Embarrassed, she put her hands over her chest. “Please, call me Anita. I really don’t mean to be a bitch. It’s just that this is really hard. I … I don’t know why. I’ve prayed for this day to come for years. And now—”

She finally buckled. Her shoulders slumped, her head dropped into her hands and tears dripped down, soaking into her slacks as her body shook with each sob.

The grief Rick had been waiting for had finally arrived. He figured she felt guilty for wishing him dead, but that didn’t mean she didn’t kill him or pay someone else to do it. She certainly had the means to hire a hit man. Rick knew it wouldn’t be the first time a wealthy woman knocked off her cruel husband.

“Anita?”

She sniffled and sat up. “Yes?” Her fiery red bangs drooped over her eyes.

“We’re going to look for a motive from anyone who knew him.”

Rick swallowed. He lacked tact in moments like these and he knew it.

“So, can you help me out and clear up the money issue?”

Her forehead wrinkled with confusion. Her lips tightened, and she wiped her blackened eyes.

“Money issue?”

Rick hesitated. He felt so intrusive.

He lifted his hands apologetically.

“I’ll be blunt. I need to know how much money is at stake.”

Her jaw collapsed and her eyes brimmed with rage.

“Are you insinuating that I’d murder my husband for money?”

She jumped to her feet, grabbed her purse and made a beeline for the door, heels pounding with fury. Rick smelled Clive Christian perfume whirling through the air as she passed. He’d sniffed the fragrance once with Stella. Too rich for his taste, but Stella enjoyed smelling like a movie star for the day.

At that moment an officer walked into the room, holding a martini glass half filled with liquor. The room fell silent, and Anita grabbed the glass from the officer’s hand, splashing much of its contents on his uniform, and took a sip. The two officers watched her swallow and close her eyes, and she licked her lips as she took in a calming inhalation.

She exhaled and her eyes opened, peering at Rick. “My husband, if you must know, wasn’t worth a dime. He squandered every penny he ever made on booze and gambling and God knows who or what else.”

She lifted her chin in an effort to regain her composure.

“The money was all mine.”

Her eyelashes batted with pride.

“If anyone had anything to gain by committing murder, he did. I stood by him through all of his shenanigans because he stuck with me through my, shall we say, misdeeds. I could have divorced him years ago, but I made a promise and I kept it.”

Rick certainly understood promises.

“Mrs. Bertrum, I’m sorry. I didn’t kn—”

“I said to call me Anita.”

She lifted the martini glass as if giving a toast and said, “And I said, a dirty martini.”

She twisted the vessel and studied the remaining fluid.

“And …”

One by one she released her fingers that gripped the drink and said, “There’s—no—olive!” and then dropped the glass.

The officer at the door leaped to save the barroom chalice, but fumbled it as it slipped through his fingers and shattered across the floor, tiny pieces tinkling into the hallway. Anita whipped her head around with haughty yet graceful maneuverability, and stomped out of the room.

Rick and the officer stared at each other in disbelief. In the distance, Anita’s tapping heels and voice echoed. “If you need anything else, call my lawyer.”

She flicked a business card with a snap of her fingers, and it fluttered to the floor.

Chapter 3

The next day Rick sat in a window booth at St. Elmos Diner waiting for Stella. Plates and silverware dinged and glasses chimed throughout the busy eatery. A heavy rain pummeled the window beside him, and tiny droplets streamed down, layering lines of wetness over the fogging glass. His head slumped and rested in the palms of his hands. Steam from a cup of Brazilian-bean coffee rose into his nostrils, and he sipped the drink from a well-chewed stirring straw.

He sat in the booth and wrestled with his thoughts, frustrated by the fact that he had lots of blood and gore and carnage but nothing to show for it. No motive. No suspects. Nothing. His throat burned from the coffee and his neck warmed from the stress.

A bell attached to the entry door began to jingle and the door opened. Rick lifted his head from the straw and smiled. Stella stepped in from the rain, shook her umbrella and scanned the room. Her blonde hair swirled in the breeze blowing through the doorway, and Rick’s world suddenly filled with sunshine. Her sparkling blueberry eyes and creamy cheeks left him mesmerized every time he saw her. She grinned shyly and walked toward him in her fitted skirt and walking shoes.

Rick stood up and helped her with her coat, and she sat down.

She was two years his senior, and for many years, like an older sister. They met regularly for lunch, as friends, although Rick knew it had become more.

Everyone knew.

Rick could tell by the way Stella smiled, by the way she touched him, by the way she moved when she walked or when she approached him, that she felt something, too.

“You look nice,” he said.

She smiled and set her purse down on the bench seat.

“Thank you. Is that why you look so glum?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s work.”

“Yeah, I heard,” she said, cringing. “Everyone in the DA’s office was talking about it this morning.” She gripped his hands across the table.

He looked down at her smooth fingers. “We’re dead in the water, Stella.”

“What did the witness have to say?”

“You mean the neighbor?”

“Yeah, the one who saw the boy in the yard.”

“She’s crazy, if you ask me.”

A waitress laid down a couple of napkins and poured ice water.

Rick glanced at the lady and said, “Thank you.”

“Crazy?” asked Stella. “How so?”

He chuckled and leaned forward. “She’s paranoid to the corecarries a salt shaker with her everywhere.”

Stella’s eyes lit up. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Does she shake it over her shoulder?”

“Yes. And she avoids black cats, ladders, broken mirrors—everything. Needless to say, her testimony about a ghost boy playing in the yard didn’t pan out.”

***

Rick and Stella laughed and ate their usual meal. Rick ordered a breaded-tenderloin sandwich, fries and a vanilla Coke. Stella had the house special, a shrimp cocktail and lemon water.

Rick loved making Stella smile. He loved being near her, no matter how much pain it caused.

He listened to her talk about her day and watched her every movement, observing the subtle twitches in her left eye, the barely visible twist of her tongue when she used an s sound and the way her blonde hair curled over her shoulder. His enamored observances, however, left her words echoing into oblivion as his thoughts drifted.

As always, thinking of Stella brought a surge of pain and a wave of memories.

He rummaged through his fears: the dream, the fall, Roger, Deanna and Alex. The latest murder had somehow become a portal, a passageway to the past and a wormhole of memories, reminding him of the grief that had surrounded him over the last three years—first his son, then Roger and then the six murders that followed.

The recollections weighed heavy on his thoughts, sinking him deeper into self-absorption, returning him to places better left unexamined, places where his confidence struggled to stay afloat.

While Stella discussed the politics of working as a legal assistant in the district attorney’s office, Rick internally argued with himself, questioning if he should quit the force. Like the other times since the death of his son, he wondered if he had what it takes to be a cop. He questioned if he should walk away from it all and start over, maybe marry Stella or move to the country.

He felt amateurish, like a second-rate professional who was unable to fill his brother’s shoes. He dropped his head and wondered how no one noticed that he was still a child inside a man’s body, masquerading as a responsible adult, aching like a brokenhearted schoolboy.

He lifted his eyes. Only Stella seemed to notice that he had crawled into his own world. She always did.

She stopped talking. Out of the corner of his eye Rick could see her watching him. She slid her plate away and it clanged against her glass, and then she leaned across the table, gripping his hands.

“Are you okay?” she asked. Her eyes beamed with compassion, overlooking his inattentiveness. She had learned to recognize when Rick was grieving.

He shook his head.

He took a sip of coffee, gazing, wondering, aching.

Her eyes connected to his. “Are you thinking about her?”

Rick sighed.

“Some.”

“Do you miss her?”

He winced, shaking his head. “Deanna? No. I miss Alex. He would’ve been four last month.” He looked outside at the raindrops trickling down the window and remembered the countless tears he and his estranged wife had shed over their infant son’s struggle to live with a congenital heart defect, one that couldn’t be fixed, not even by the doctors at the acclaimed Indiana University Children’s Hospital.

They had spent all of their savings and emotional energy on specialists and treatments and arguments. Rick hated fighting. He tried to keep their disagreements private so Alex wouldn’t hear. He didn’t want his son to think that he was the problem, even if it was only a subconscious feeling.

Deanna looked at things differently. She was loud and brazen and sought results at any expense, even sacrificing their marriage.

A flash of lightning woke Rick from his thoughts, and he blinked back to the moment at hand.

“When I think about how angry Deanna became after he passed, it makes me wonder how stable she really was as a person.”

Rick took a deep breath. “Or maybe it was me. Maybe it’s a good thing she left. I wasn’t helping any.” He remembered how factual and insensitive he had been at times. “No one ever teaches you how to deal with grief. You just do it and whatever happens, happens.”

A clap of thunder shook the window beside Rick. He turned back to Stella. “Is it wrong to think that way?”

“No,” she said, narrowing her gaze and centering her eyes on his, still gripping his hands.

“She walked out two years ago, leaving you with nothing but questions. I’ve wondered the same thing. What if Alex had lived? Would she leave if things got stressful? Some moms do that, you know.” She grinned and patted his hands. “I’m not helping, am I?”

Rick forced out a smile. “You’re fine. You’re such a better listener than I am. We make a good pair. With your ears and my eyes, we might actually be able to solve this damn case.”

Rick chuckled, knowing that would never happen. He wouldn’t allow it.

Stella laughed. Her mouth opened and closed, threatening to speak, until she finally asked, “Is that all?”

Rick looked away. “No.”

“Is it the dream?”

“Yes. Over thirty years and I still can’t shake the damn thing.”

“What do you think it means?” Stella dropped her chin and sipped her water.

Rick grunted. “You tell me. I’m playing in the basement, Mom crashes down the stairs, her bones break and she lands on m—”

He cringed.

Stella’s eyes wrinkled.

Rick felt the warmth of her touch and he looked into her eyes. His heart ached with regret. Stella had become his best friend, his only source of strength and stability. He thought about the promise he had made to Roger, a promise to never let her marry a cop, a promise that kept them apart.

As one thought led to another, he reminded himself of the pledge, a pledge that preceded the death of his son and his wife’s vamoose, a pledge that he never imagined would rupture his soul with such intensity. He felt like he had made a pact with the devil, only to discover that heaven was within his grasp.

Her hand cupped his and he felt his heart sink.

Rick absorbed her caring eyes, and his gut burned with sadness. As much as he cared for her, he couldn’t tell her everything.

He peered through the window and watched the rain beat down, splashing, dripping and seeping into hidden places like the fears that flooded his heart in the darkest of times. In that moment, a cold wind blew into his soul and icy pellets beat memories of disappointment, hurt and doubt into his mind, torturing him, paralyzing his thoughts and his passion to kiss and love her.

He turned back to Stella, pushing through the pain.

“How ’bout you?”

She smiled, covering her own sorrow. “Oh, I’m fine.”

Rick leaned close and shot his eyes directly at hers, questioning her honesty.

“Really, I am,” she insisted.

“Do you miss Roger?”

She nodded and twisted her hand from side to side.

“Sometimes.”

She put her elbows on the table, clasped her fingers and rested her chin on her fists.

“You get used to having someone around, you know. Sometimes, I think we love the idea of marriage more than marriage itself. But come on”—she laughed—“it’s been two years. I’m living my life now. I think of him, but I don’t think of him like I used to.” She squinted. “Do you know what I mean?”

“Yeah. That’s how I feel about Deanna, or something like that, anyway.”

“It’s like, when you lose someone,” said Stella, “you feel lost for a while. Not that I’m—”

She looked away. Rick wondered what she was thinking. He dinged his glass with a spoon and caught her gaze when she turned.

“I understand,” he said. “Really, I do. Deanna left three years ago and I’m over her, but I still feel empty, like something’s missing. I don’t know. Things are crazy right now.” He chuckled. “But I miss Roger. Hell, I better miss him; he’s my brother. We were a good team.”

Rick sat back and grinned.

“Maybe one of these days I’ll get the hell out of this city and get a place in the country, and you—you can come with me. We’ll get a farm and … never mind.”

Stella grinned and waved her hand. “Nothing wrong with dreaming.” She looked out the window. “There are some things I miss about your brother, and some things I don’t.”

Rick smiled as a brief memory of Roger working the beat shot through his mind. He remembered how confident Roger looked when he stepped out of his patrol car, looking like he was in complete control—in fact, he was. His size didn’t hurt, either. He had a way of making people talk without resorting to violence.

Rick patted his fist against his heart. “He’ll always be here … a part of him anyway. He was a good cop, a good detective. I learned a lot from him. I just wish—”

He sighed and continued with his voice cracking. “Okay. Time to change the subject.”

Rick watched Stella spend a moment with her thoughts, and then she took another sip of her drink. Her head twisted abruptly toward the glass window to her left.

“What is it?” asked Rick.

She didn’t move. Her eyes remained fixated.

He followed her gaze and saw something that frightened him to his core. His body lurched backwards and he nearly tumbled out of the booth.

“Shit! What the fu—” His lips trembled and his eyes spread wide open when he saw a small boy standing outside the diner window.

The figure stood stock-still, his skin pale white, his eyes encircled with swollen black flesh. The boy stared through the glass, holding a dazed and deathly grin. He stared at Rick, the detective’s heart rate escalating. Blood pounded through his veins, rhythmically increasing the tension one vascular throb at a time.

The boy locked eyes with Rick.

The detective couldn’t resist the dark holes that grabbed his attention, calling to his thoughts telepathically.

“Here I am,” he said. “Do you see me?”

The voice rang in Rick’s ears and burned like fire.

The detective climbed back into his seat and grabbed Stella’s hands.

“Stella, do you see that? Do you see him?”

“See what?” she asked, jolted by his frightened face.

“The boy. You were looking right at him.”

He pointed at the zombified character.

“He’s right there!”

“What? Oh, no,” she said. “I thought I saw someone I knew. But it was someone else.”

“You don’t see him?”

She looked toward the window, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“See whom?”

Rick wiped the sweat from his brow with his napkin, leaned close to Stella and whispered, “Stella.” He swallowed an anxious gulp. “Look out the window and tell me what you see.”

She turned and replied, “I see Monument Circle, a buffalo head on the memorial, Meridian Street, lots of buildings, the radio station, your apartment …”

Rick watched the cold-faced boy turn and laugh.

“Hee, hee, hee, hee, hee, hee!”

The kid’s arms lay stiff at his sides, and his little legs scampered away. The sound of the boy’s jeering ignited Rick’s head with combustible flames. He gripped his skull and attempted to stop the racket, but to no avail.

Stella sat back and stared at Rick with concern. “Rick? What’s the matter?”

His ears rang from the center of his brain. His eyes labored as he watched the boy strolling down the sidewalk. He wondered if the kid was alive or if he was seeing things.

The boy could be the witness he’d been looking for. He didn’t want to leave Stella, but something pulled him away. There was something about the freaky kid that compelled him to leave.

Rick jumped to his feet and shuffled through his wallet for cash.

“I’ve gotta go, Stella. I’m sorry.”

Stella looked confused. “Sorry? What are you doing?”

He threw a wad of money on the table. The child’s laughing resonated in his head. He stepped away from the table and stretched his neck toward the window to see the boy, then bumped into the waitress.

Still straining to look through the glass, he said, “I’m sorry.” He pushed his hands out apologetically and continued walking.

Stella spun around in her seat. “Rick? Where are you going?”

Rick stumbled toward the door.

“I’m sorry. The boy. He’s—”

~End excerpt~

A message from the author:

Thank you so much for reading my work. I’m extremely grateful for your support. I would truly love to hear from you and get feedback from you regarding your reading experience. Like any profession, writing is a process, and my best work is yet to come. And you know what? I’d love to take you with me on my journey. You can best follow this wild ride I call my writing life at The Writing Bomb, where I write weekly posts about writing, family life, and an occasional rant about the state of the publishing business, or at jeffbennington.com.

Jeff Bennington

Easy Innocence – Libby Fisher Hellman

Easy Innocence

Libby Fisher Hellman

Description:

When pretty, smart Sara Long is found bludgeoned to death, it's easy to blame the man with the bat. But Georgia Davis -- former cop and newly-minted PI -- is hired to look into the incident at the behest of the accused's sister, and what she finds hints at a much different, much darker answer. It seems the privileged, preppy schoolgirls on Chicago's North Shore have learned just how much their innocence is worth to hot-under-the-collar businessmen. But while these girls can pay for Prada pricetags, they don't realize that their new business venture may end up costing them more than they can afford.

Praise:

"Hellmann brings to life the reality of  bullying among teenage girls with enough twists and turns to keep you reading. Highly recommended."
--Library Journal (Starred Review)

" Just what's needed in a mystery... Depth of characterization sets this new entry by Hellmann (A Shot to Die For, 2005, etc.) apart from a crowded field." --Kirkus Reviews

" There's a new no-nonsense female private detective in town: Georgia Davis, a former cop who is tough and smart enough to give even the legendary V.I. Warshawski a run for her money. " --Chicago Tribune

"Hellmann's vast knowledge of the area and ability to dive deep into her characters give her the authority needed to create a suspenseful and gripping story." --CrimeSpree Magazine

"This was a book I could not put down, reading it cover to cover during the course of one day.  The reader is drawn into the story immediately, and the wonderful writing makes the characters come alive." --Midwest Book Review

Author:

Libby Fischer Hellmann is the Anthony-nominated author of 9 crime fiction novels, including the Ellie Foreman suspense/amateur sleuth series. The Ellie books, which Libby describes as a cross between "Desperate Housewives" and "24," include AN EYE FOR MURDER, A PICTURE OF GUILT, AN IMAGE OF DEATH, and A SHOT TO DIE FOR. Libby also writes the award-winning, hard-boiled Georgia Davis PI series, (EASY INNOCENCE, DOUBLEBACK, and TOXICITY) and two acclaimed stand-alone thrillers: SET THE NIGHT ON FIRE and A BITTER VEIL. All her books, including her two volume collection of short stories, and audios, are available on Amazon and Audible.

ASIN: B001UE8J4Y

Libby's Links:

http://libbyhellmann.com

Like: https://www.facebook.com/authorLibbyFischerHellmann

follow:https://twitter.com/libbyhellmann

Author App:http://bit.ly/PuQH7H

CHAPTER ONE

LONG AFTER she moved on, she would remember the smells. Her eyes, she kept closed—she’d never been a watcher, and most of the time there wasn’t anything worth looking at. But the smells were always there. Sometimes she made a game out of it. She could usually tag them by their aftershave. Brut. Old Spice. The man who reeked of Opium. Those were easy. It was when they didn’t bother to clean up, when their greasy hair or body odor or foul breath made her gag, that it got hard. Then she stopped playing the game and took shallow breaths through her mouth.

There was also the dusty smell of the blankets. The starchy scent of the sheets. The faint residue of smoke in the rug and curtains. In nicer hotels, she might catch a lingering trace of disinfectant.

But the smell of sex—that was always the same. It didn’t matter whether the man was white or black or Asian. It didn’t matter the state of his personal hygiene. Sex gave off that slightly chemical, briny odor. Sometimes yeasty. Sometimes flavored with sweat. It wasn’t offensive. Just different.

As she rolled off his body, his aftershave cut through the smell of sex. Spicy but sweet. She didn’t recognize it, but she knew it was expensive. She sat up. The room was large and elegantly furnished. Late afternoon sun spilled through wooden window slats. He always brought her to nice hotels. And he paid well. They never haggled.

She grabbed the small towel she’d left at the end of the bed and gently rubbed his cock. He moaned and stretched out his arms. He claimed he liked to clean up right away, but she knew he just wanted some extra attention.

She kept rubbing. “How we doing?”

He kept his eyes shut, but a smile tickled his lips, and he angled his pelvis up toward the towel. “Mmmm.”

Men were so predictable. But this was what made it worthwhile. Besides the money. She loved the moment when they reached the edge of passion and couldn’t hold on any longer. When they shot into her, relinquishing everything. The feeling of power at that moment was incredible. And addictive.

She massaged him for another minute, then stopped. Always leave them wanting, she’d learned. Sometimes it meant another round. And more money. This time, though, he didn’t move. He lay so still she wondered if he had fallen asleep. She hoped not. She had another appointment.

She bunched up the towel and lobbed it across the room. It landed on her black leather mini-skirt. Damn. She’d paid nearly two hundred dollars for it, another two for the jacket. No way she’d let it get ruined by a sex-stained towel. She got out of bed, picked up the clothes and the Coach bag lying nearby. She remembered when she bought the bag. How she handed over the three hundred dollar bills with a blasé expression, trying not to show how proud she was to have that kind of cash. How the sales clerk at Old Orchard Mall squinted, trying to hide her envy. Yes, it was worth it.

She headed into the bathroom, making sure to leave the door open. He liked to watch her get dressed. She tried to remember if he’d always been that way. She thought not. Of course, things were different then. She smiled to herself. If he only knew. She cleaned herself up and put on the skirt, then the filmy see-through blouse. She checked herself out in the mirror, pirouetting left then right. She’d lost a few pounds over the summer, and she liked her new lean look. She’d be shopping for winter clothes soon. That would be fun.

She was reapplying her makeup, thinking about Prada boots and Versace sweaters when his cell chirped. She heard him curse, then fumble around for his jacket. She heard the metallic click as he flipped the phone open.

“Yeah?”

She studied her hair in the mirror. It had come down, and her blond waves framed her face. But she had another job, so she rolled it back up into a twist. With her hair, her makeup and clothes, no one recognized her. Including “Charlie.” She almost giggled. Charlie. What kind of name was that for a john? He should have been more creative. Sometimes she said her name was Stella. The object of desire. Better than that stupid streetcar.

“I’m in a meeting,” he said into the cell.

She couldn’t hear who he was talking to, but the long exhalation that followed told her he wasn’t going to be hanging up.

“That’s what we’re meeting about.” A pause. “The funeral’s at Christ Church up here. She refuses to go back to the old neighborhood.” Another pause. “Memorial Park.”

She stopped fiddling with her hair.

“I told you. I don’t want to talk about this. I told you I would handle Fred. But you couldn’t wait. Now we’re both up shit creek.”

Fred? She dropped her arms and slowly turned around. He sat on the edge of the bed, his profile to her. His cell was glued to his ear, and he was trying to pull up his pants with his free hand. She leaned against the bathroom door.

“Of course, she’s upset.” He snapped the button of his trousers. “He’s the only one in the family she talked to. For him to die—alone—in a fire—she’s devastated. Everyone is. I told you not to jump the gun. We were practically there.”

She bit her lip, trying to piece it together. When she thought she had it, she sucked in a breath.

He twisted around and stared at her. The anger that ran hard across his face disappeared, and his expression grew puzzled. Then his eyes narrowed. “I’ll call you back.” He released the cell from his ear and snapped it closed.

She looked down. But not fast enough.

CHAPTER TWO

A PRINCESS. That’s what she looked like to him. A fairy princess.

Shh. Quiet. Don’t make a sound. Have to watch the silky, golden-haired girl. See her twist and twirl in the clearing.

He slipped behind a tree. As quiet as a mouse. A furry mouse. Mousekeeters. Karen and Cubby. But the girls with her in the clearing were not quiet. They shouted and laughed. And made the princess spin around in a circle. She stumbled from one to another while they clapped and cheered. They should stop, he thought. Fairy princesses are not meant to fall. Fairy princesses are meant to smile, to soar, to glide. Their wands flickered as they touched the anointed, and the anointed rose up strong and powerful.

No. Must not touch myself. It is bad. Everyone says so.

The branch he’d been holding fell back, but the girls, absorbed in their chanting, didn’t notice. He waited a moment, then lifted the branch again.

The girls had gone. The princess was alone. But she did not flutter from spot to spot, bestowing magic with her wand. She stomped around the clearing, her arms out in front. Long, bare arms, her summer tan not quite faded. He imagined the shapely, tanned legs beneath her jeans. He felt himself stiffen.

She couldn’t see. A white metal bucket covered her head. A foul smell came from the bucket. Fish. Dead fish. How did that happen? She pulled at the bucket, tugging, yanking, trying to take it off. But it would not come off. Her ring made a tinny sound against the metal. A quiet clang. Knock knock. Who’s there? Who’s coming?

“Is anybody there?” He could barely hear her muffled cries. “Please. Help. It’s getting hard to breathe!”

He let the branch fall again. Her ladies-in-waiting had abandoned her. He, the gallant prince, would rescue her. But first he had to attend to the urge. It was strong, his urge. Sometimes it consumed him. It was what he did when he saw beauty. It was the only thing that soothed him. And the fairy princess was very beautiful. He hid behind a tree and dropped his pants. Quiet. Very quiet. Can’t let anyone see.

“Hey. Come on! I need help!”

His heart began to pound. She was calling. I am here, your highness, he wanted to say. I will be there. But first, I need to do this. It will only be a minute. Minute rice. Minute men. Minute. Minute. Minute.

A moment later, he sagged and clung to the tree. He had finished. He peered around. The princess was standing strangely still. Had she heard him? No. How could she? He was always quiet. And she had that bucket on her head.

Bushes rustled on the other side of the clearing. Who was creeping out of the woods toward the princess? Was that a baseball bat in their hands? Or was it his imagination? The doctors kept saying he saw things that weren’t there. Did things he shouldn’t do.

His father had bought him a Louisville Slugger when he was young. Told him about Ted Williams and Harmon Killebrew. Taught him how to swing from his hips. He remembered that day. It was a good one.

Wait. What was happening? The bucket wasn’t a ball. Stop striking the bucket. The princess will get hurt! Already she was swaying from side to side. But the bat kept pounding the metal. Swing and a miss. Strike one. The princess fell to her knees, still clutching the bucket. Ashes, ashes, they all fall down. The princess was down for the count. Ten, nine, eight. One more swing connected with the bucket with a loud clannngggg. The princess dropped to the ground.

Home run. The home team won! Where are the bells? The whistles? The scoreboard lit up like the Fourth of July? A trickle of red seeped under the rim of the bucket onto the ground.

Suddenly it was quiet. Even the crickets stifled their song. He stared at the princess. She wasn’t moving. Oh God, it was good. He was good. His pants were stained. He was wet. Sticky. So was the princess. Have to mop up. Clean us both. Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet. Cleaning her curds and whey.

Her sweet, milky neck. The soft, golden hair. Streaked with red now. Did he do this? He was going to be her salvation. The leaves on the trees shivered. He did too.

The Louisville Slugger. It lay close to the princess. He had wanted to play Little League. Shortstop, he thought. Stop short. But he didn’t make the team. His father was angry. He remembered that day, too. It hurt. He stood up and raised the bat to his shoulders. Swing and a miss. Strike two.

Screams pierced the silence of the woods. The ladies in waiting were back. Their hands flew to their mouths. Their eyes grew wide with horror. You are too late, he wanted to call out. You could not save your Princess.

He dropped the bat and knelt down next to her body. He touched the bloody rim of the bucket. He wiped his hands on his shirt. The silence of the woods pressed in. He would have cried, if only he knew how.

CHAPTER THREE

THAT TWO-TIMING bitch,” he spat. “She’s going to pay. Big time.”

Georgia Davis tried to ignore the man’s venom, but the more he talked, the more vicious he grew. A potential client, he’d met her at Starbucks and immediately started to rant about his wife. Georgia listened, hoping she could remain dispassionate. “When did you first suspect she was seeing someone?”

“About six months ago.”

“You waited a long time to act on it.”

“I thought maybe she was telling the truth about the Goddammed class. Then I called the school, and they had no fucking record of her registration.” His face grew so crimson, his body so rigid she was afraid he might explode. “She’s a whore. A Goddamned cheating whore. After all I’ve done for her. She was nothing before she married me.” He bunched his hands into fists. “A fucking nobody!”

Georgia sipped her coffee. The guy had come in as a referral from a PI she hardly knew. The dick worked in the western suburbs, but the client lived on the North Shore, and he thought Georgia would be better suited to the case. She’d gratefully snapped it up, but now she wasn’t so sure. Did the PI know what an asshole this guy was? Maybe she should have grilled him more before she jumped.

Except the guy was paying good money. He hadn’t blinked when she gave him her per diem, payable up front, and he agreed to a bonus if she came up with the goods.

“Let me look into it, Mr. Colley.” She put down her coffee. “If it’s true, you’ll have your proof.”

“What, pictures? Videotape? Or other crap?”

“Something like that.”

“It’s gonna have to hold up in court.”

“It will.”

He eyed her skeptically. “Lamont says you’re new to this game.”

Georgia looked him in the eye. “I was a cop for ten years.”

“Where?”

“Up here. On the North Shore.”

“You spent your days tracking down lost bicycles and cats?”

And covered a lot of domestics, she thought. “Among other things.”

“This job—well—it’s not like handing out speeding tickets on Happ Road. How do I know you can handle it?”

She leveled another look at him. “You don’t.” She paused. “But if you have any doubts, you’re free to find someone else.” She lifted her bag off the back of the chair, and hiked it up on her shoulder. “Thanks for the coffee.” She stood up and turned around.

“Hold on.” Colley raised his hand. “I’ll write out a check.”

***

Something was off, Georgia realized the next night.

The woman threw her arms around her boyfriend, her face so full of joy and abandon it lit up the motel parking lot. As she pressed against him, he tipped up her chin and kissed her eyes, her nose, her throat. Then he tenderly brushed the side of her cheek. She winced. He wrapped his arms around her, and the two of them clung together, as if they might melt into each other through sheer will. The man fished a key out of his pocket and opened the door to the room. The woman followed him in.

Georgia frowned and stopped her digital camera. They didn’t look like a couple in the throes of a tawdry, furtive affair. They looked like a couple in love, the kind of love that makes old people smile indulgently and causes the envious to avert their eyes. The kind of love that refuses to hide, even when it should. She’d been less than fifty yards away from the motel, filming their every move, and they never bothered to check if anyone was watching.

She curled her fingers around the camera and played back the tape through the view finder. When she got to the part where the man brushed his fingers along his lover’s cheek, Georgia zoomed in. She saw a discolored spot on the woman’s skin. A bruise.

Georgia weighed her options. She could delete the tape. Blame it on a screwed-up camera. Being married to that asshole was punishment enough. Then again, this was her living. She couldn’t afford the luxury of scruples. The domestics, the skip traces, the occasional insurance fraud— they all added up. She panned from the motel to the rear of the woman’s white Mercedes and zoomed in on a shot of her license plate. Then she panned into the rear windshield. One of those dogs with drooping folds at its neck bobbed in the window. Brown and white markings and floppy ears. A Beagle.

Finished, she headed back to her car and put the camera back in its case. She was about to start the engine for the drive back to Evanston when she changed her mind. Sliding out of the car, she made her way to the motel room and tapped lightly on the door.

At least they’d have a day’s head start.

***

Georgia watched the steam swirl around her bathroom as she toweled off the next morning. With all the humidity, she ought to buy a fern for the window ledge. But she knew she’d never do it. She had a knack for killing things.

The phone rang in the living room. She scrambled to get it. “Davis here.”

“Georgia Davis?” It was a woman’s voice. Soft. Tentative.

“That’s right.”

The woman cleared her throat. “Hello My name is Ruth Jordan and I’m—uh—I’m calling at the suggestion of Sergeant Dan O’Malley.”

“O’Malley. How is the old—er—coot?”

The woman didn’t reply.

“Sorry, he’s a—well, sometimes, I get, well...” Georgia stopped, feeling embarrassed. “How can I help you?”

“I—I don’t quite know how to explain. I think I’m still in shock. But the Sergeant thought you might be able to help.”

O’Malley referring someone to her? That was a first. “Just start at the beginning and go slowly.”

The woman let out a breath. “Yes. Of course. Like I said, my name is Ruth Jordan. I live in Northbrook. I’m calling about my brother, Cameron. Cam, we call him.”

Wrapping the towel around her, Georgia went to her desk and grabbed a pad of paper and a pen. “Go on.”

“Cam’s always been—well, how shall I say it—he’s not right in the head. Hasn’t been since—since he was a little boy.” She hesitated. “Not that he’s violent or anything. He’s just—well, they never knew quite how to diagnose him. Autistic, we’re pretty sure. But other things, too. We tried everything, of course. Sometimes he seems better for a while. It’s hard to tell. And now that our parents are gone, well, it’s just the two of us, and I—it’s hard, you know?”

Georgia tapped the pen against the pad of paper. “What’s the problem, Ms. Jordan?”

“Cam—well, Cam is in a lot of trouble.” She cleared her throat again. “He was arrested a few weeks ago, and he’s in jail. They say he killed a teenage girl.”

CHAPTER FOUR

SHINY LINOLEUM floors, naugahyde booths, and lots of mirrors tagged the Villager restaurant as a newly renovated diner, but a diner nonetheless. Tucked away on a side street not far from the police station, it had been serving good food at reasonable prices for twenty years. A few years ago the place had been bought by two Greek brothers and their sister, and while the menu now reflected an ethnic flavor, it was still a popular hangout for cops. O’Malley was nursing a bowl of soup. It was mid-afternoon, and the place was practically empty. O’Malley would never have met her here at rush hour, Georgia knew. It wasn’t wise for a cop and a PI to be seen together, even if the PI had once been on the force. So why had he suggested the Villager? Maybe he didn’t care. She slid into the booth across from him.

“Hey, Danny. I appreciate this.”

“Gotta make it quick.” O’Malley picked up his spoon. His red hair, marginally flecked with gray, made him look younger than his forty-five years, but there was no trace of the eager police officer he’d been when Georgia first met him. His face now held a world-weary cast, and his expression was naturally suspicious, even in repose. They’d come onto the force around the same time, but O’Malley was promoted after a couple of years. In fact, he’d been her supervisor when she left. He was a good one, too. Never got tied up in knots over political correctness or idiotic regulations, some of which were designed to keep her a few rungs behind the men. O’Malley told her when she did good and when she screwed up.

She pretended not to notice his thickening gut and chalky complexion. Was he okay? Should she ask? They’d always been straight with each other. Still, she wasn’t on the force any more. She glanced at his soup, a steaming, thick, buttery mass with a few pieces of bacon thrown in.

She motioned to the bowl. “That your idea of healthy eating?”

“Careful, there,” he said, spooning soup into his mouth. He took his time swallowing. “I already have a food cop in my life.”

If anything was wrong with him, his wife Joyce, a strong plain-speaking woman with so much energy she could power the lights at Wrigley Field by herself, would be all over him with a list of remedies she’d discovered on the Internet.

Georgia righted her coffee cup, which had been upside down. As a waitress came over to fill it, she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirrored panel on the wall. Some said she had hard features, especially when she wasn’t wearing makeup. Today, with her blond hair pulled into a butterfly clip, she looked all nose, blue eyes, and pale skin. She started to tug at her fisherman’s sweater, then stopped. She was what she was. She ran her hands down her thighs. The denim of her jeans was comforting.

“So to what do I owe the honor of this referral?”

“Don’t call it that, okay? I told her I wasn’t sure there was anything you—or anyone—could do. But she was—well—persistent.” He put his spoon down and studied her. “Hey. You doing all right?”

Georgia sipped her coffee. “I’m doing fine. There is life after the force.”

“Good.” He shook his head. “The way all that went down, it—it wasn’t right. Olson shouldn’t have... well... Shit.”

“It’s okay, Dan. I’m moving on. You should too. Gotta live for the present, you know what I mean?”

“That’s for sure.” He started to nod then caught himself. “You sound— different.” His eyes narrowed. “You doing some kind of religious stuff? Or yoga?”

Georgia laughed. “Church of life, Dan. Church of Life.”

He snorted and spooned up more soup. It left a trace of white on his mustache.

“So.” Georgia ran a finger over her lips. “Tell me about Sara Long and what she was doing in the Forest Preserve on September 17th.”

He looked up. “You did your homework.”

“It’s not hard when it’s all over the papers. Seventeen years old. A junior at Newfield High School in Winnetka. Clubbed to death with a baseball bat in the Forest Preserve. Her friends find the offender kneeling over her body, holding the bat. The girls run away and call the police on their cells. Police pick him up wandering near the crime scene a few minutes later. Turns out to be one Cameron Jordan, a registered sex offender, and crazy as a loon.”

“That’s just about it.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“So, it sounds pretty cut and dry. Why’d you have his sister give me a call?”

O’Malley pushed his soup bowl away from him, folded his hands on the table, and stared at Georgia. “I don’t like it.” He paused. “And there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Georgia hunched forward, leaning her elbows on the table. She kept her mouth shut. It was a trick she’d picked up from—she forced his image out of her mind. It didn’t matter. The technique worked.

“This one flew up to the State’s Attorney so fast you’d need wings to track it,” O’Malley said. “I never saw anything like it. Wasn’t even half an hour after they picked up the boy that we got the call. Felony Review was here like a shot. We did a show-up, and they approved murder charges right away.”

“Without a CI?”

“They claimed they didn’t need a continuing investigation. Said they had everything they needed. Two days later, they sent the package to 26th and Cal, and the grand jury indicted him for first degree murder. He was arraigned in Skokie two weeks after that.”

Holy—“That is fast. Who does her family know?”

O’Malley shrugged. “Good question. Word is the State’s Attorney’s Office wants it taken care of yesterday.”

“Who’s handling the case?”

“Jeff Ramsey.”

“Don’t know him.”

“He’s First Assistant. From New York. Went to Northwestern Law. Joined the State’s Attorney’s Office four years ago. They say he’s interested in higher office.”

“Aren’t they all?”

O’Malley shrugged. “What’s interesting is that he lives on the North Shore.”

“Is that right?”

“Winnetka,” O’Malley nodded. “Has a daughter at Newfield.”

“Oh.”

Newfield was considered one of the most prestigious public schools in the country, but it was a place that mirrored both the best and the worst of teenage life. People talked about the famous actors, cabinet secretaries, and CEOs who graduated from the school, but with over four thousand students, how any one of them got enough personal attention so they could rise to the top was a mystery to Georgia. She’d gone to St. Michael’s parish school on the West Side of Chicago, where there were forty kids in the entire grade.

“Tell me about the suspect.”

“Cam Jordan is thirty-five. In and out of institutions his entire life. Yes, he’s a sex offender. But he never attacked anyone and he’s never shown any signs of violent behavior. He’s basically just a peeping tom who whacks off in parks and other public places.”

“And scares the shit out of high school girls.”

“There is that,” O’Malley admitted. “But you know the law. You don’t have to be much more than a wand waver to get registered these days. But that’s only one of his problems.” He went on. “We have his prints on the bat, and her blood on his shirt.”

“Sounds like a lock,” Georgia said. “How come you think it’s fucked up?”

O’Malley didn’t answer.

She leaned forward. “Who’s Jordan’s lawyer?”

“A public defender at first. But I heard the sister just got a private defense lawyer.”

“You don’t know who?”

He shook his head. “She told me, but I didn’t know the name. Kelly, I think.”

“Who’s lead detective on your end?”

O’Malley hesitated. “Robby Parker.”

Robby Parker had been Georgia’s partner for two years. She’d endured him. Barely. “Parker’s a dick now?”“Just.”

Georgia rolled her eyes. “Christ, man, what are you doing to me?”

“That’s not the best part.”

Their waitress appeared with a pot of coffee. Although she’d only had a sip, Georgia let her warm it up. When the waitress left, Georgia leaned back. “So, what is—the best part?”

“What the girls were doing in the Forest Preserve.”

Georgia thought about it. Two years ago, when she was still on the force, a group of high school senior girls had attacked some juniors in the Forest Preserve during what was supposed to be an all-girls powder puff football game. Several of the girls were hurt badly enough to go to the ER. Unfortunately, someone brought a video camera, and when shots of the fracas appeared on TV, a scandal broke nationwide.

She’d been the youth officer on the force at the time, and she remembered questioning some of the kids. It turned out the incident was part of a hazing tradition that had been going on for years. It also turned out that some of the students, including boys, who’d witnessed the hazing, had been drinking beer. And the beer, as well as baseball bats, buckets, and other materials used during the hazing, were supplied by the kids’ parents. Some of the victims filed suits against the school and each other, and nearly thirty students were suspended. Strict anti-hazing rules were enacted, but no one believed the practice had disappeared. It had just gone underground.

“Hazing,” Georgia said softly.

“There’s no video this time, but that’s the operative theory.”

“Was there booze?”

“Looks that way.”

Georgia nodded. “The reports say the girls found her body in a secluded part of the woods.”

“Part of the ritual. They blindfolded her, dumped a bucket of fish guts on her head, then ditched her. She was supposed to find her way back to the picnic area.”

“What about clubbing her with a baseball bat? Was that part of the ritual?”

O’Malley shot her a look. “Just the fish guts. They claim they never used the bat.”

“Right.” She laced her fingers together. “So tell me, Dan. Why do you think the case is moving so fast?”

O’Malley shrugged.

Georgia didn’t say anything. Then, “It hasn’t been reported by the press. The hazing part.”

“It will be. They’ve been sniffing around.”

“But it’s been a few weeks since her murder.”

O’Malley just looked at her.

“Maybe they needed time to get the girls all lawyered up,” she said.

O’Malley spread his hands. “Hey, this is the North Shore.”

CHAPTER FIVE

GEORGIA HEADED home on Ridge, turning west and then south on Asbury. She started looking for a place to park on a side street, but a large orange U-Haul in the middle of the road blocked her. She cursed, squeezed by the truck, and drove further down the block. Five minutes later, she found a spot, parked the car, and jogged back to her building. As she approached, two men were hefting a large bureau toward her front door.

She cut across the grass past the men and climbed up three steps. The door opened into a vestibule just big enough for six brass mailboxes and a small table. Normally junk mail, coupons, and flyers were fanned across the table, but today they were strewn on the floor. She scooped up a couple of pizza delivery coupons. She hoped whoever was moving in was almost done. It was nearly dusk, and despite what the Chamber of Commerce proclaimed, Evanston wasn’t the kind of place to keep your front door open after dark.

She started up the stairs to the second floor. A loud thump made her stop.

“Hey, man. Can’t you be more careful? This belonged to my grandmother.”

“You want a professional mover, hire one,” the other man grumbled.

Georgia peeked over her shoulder. The men looked about her age. One was husky and big like a defensive tackle. The other was tall and thin with sandy hair, long on top, but razor short on the sides. A pair of glasses slipped down his nose. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. The strain of the load made his biceps stand out nicely.

She watched them brace the bureau against the railing as they hoisted it up the steps. It would be a sharp ninety degree turn to get it inside. As the man with the glasses gripped the table and maneuvered it sideways through the door, the light glinted off a thin gold band on his left hand. Georgia turned around and continued up the steps.

She let herself into her apartment, kicked off her boots, and grabbed a pop from the fridge. She took it back into the living room, which doubled as her office. The apartment was spare, even severe. A plain brown couch, beige curtains, two easy chairs, a desk with several shelves above. Once upon a time, she’d collected things: candles, a clock, a bronze rooster, a cloisonné bowl. They were packed away now. Better not to have too many possessions. Who said that? Some French writer, she thought.

She had two jobs lined up: a skip trace, which, if the Internet Gods were favorable, might only take a few hours, and a possible insurance fraud scam. There was no reason she couldn’t handle another job. As a cop, she’d multi-tasked for years.

The problem—as it always was—was money. There probably wouldn’t be much if she took Cam Jordan’s case. Then again, this was the kind of work she’d been yearning for. Something that required more than taping an adulterous affair. She hadn’t confirmed it with Ruth Jordan or the public defender, but she assumed her task would be to establish reasonable doubt that Cam Jordan had killed Sara Long. At least enough to convince a jury.

She’d have to insert herself in the middle of other people’s lives. Which presented a problem. People on the North Shore didn’t take kindly to interference by outsiders. And up here people considered anyone they didn’t already know an outsider. There was also the pressure of a heater case, one that the State’s Attorney apparently wanted to wrap up fast. And she’d be facing her former partner on the other side. That didn’t bother her; she could run rings around Robby Parker. And she did have some knowledge of teenagers on the North Shore from her stint as youth officer. She even knew one or two who might talk to her.

Peeling off her jeans, she went into the bathroom in her underwear. As she splashed cold water on her face, she heard banging and a curse coming from the hall. Groans and scuffles as the furniture was hauled up to the third floor. The new tenants must be moving into the apartment one floor up and across from hers. At least they wouldn’t be thumping on her ceiling.

She rolled the can of soda across her forehead and sat down, tapping a finger against the can. Then she got up and grabbed the cordless phone on her desk. She punched in a number.

***

Lauren Walcher’s hand shook so much she was afraid she might stab herself in the eye. She lowered the mascara brush and stared at herself in the mirror. Thick black hair framed an oval face with blue eyes, thick lashes, and pale skin. With or without the mascara, she knew she was attractive. Even her mother, during those rare moments of intimacy, still called her Snow White. She remembered as a little girl trying to find the magic mirror on the wall. She was sure it was hidden underneath the wallpaper in her bedroom. All she needed were the right words, and the mirror would magically swim to the surface and tell her who was the fairest one of all.

Now, her face illuminated by the theater lights, Lauren knew better. The mirror would never appear. People carried their mirrors on the in-side. They should. Most people were ugly. She raised the brush again and leaned toward the glass. She’d bought the mascara at Sephora last week for twenty-five dollars. It was good stuff. Everyone used it. She tried again to apply it, taking care there were no clumps or goop, but the tremor in her hand wouldn’t stop.

She took a breath to steady herself. She couldn’t fall apart. Everything depended on her. Where was he? She’d called him an hour ago. He always called back. A chirp from the computer sounded, alerting her to an incoming e-mail. He did have a Treo. Maybe he was e-mailing.

She went into her bedroom, a lavender and white kingdom with a huge four poster bed. The dainty print canopy matched the quilt which blended with the curtains and the carpet. A collection of teddy bears and other stuffed animals were piled in a corner. Her mother kept telling her to get rid of them, to give them to needy children. But Lauren couldn’t bear to part with them. She’d named them all.

Next to the menagerie was an arrangement of shelves, drawers, and desk, holding her CD-DVD player, TV, and computer. She clicked on the e-mail. It wasn’t him. She read the message, made some notes, and typed a message back. Then she rummaged in her bag for her cell and made a call.

When she finished, she popped in a CD and lay down on her bed. John Mayer’s mellow voice welled out of Bose speakers. She closed her eyes. What was the last thing Sara heard before she died?

***

It was the beginning of junior year. The toughest year, everyone said. Term papers, ACTs, grades that counted. The powder puff football game in the Forest Preserve was the last frivolous activity before they knuckled down. Even so, Sara hadn’t wanted to go. Neither did Lauren, but she thought it was important to make an appearance. Sara wasn’t convinced until the night before when she called Lauren to say she’d come after all.

“How come you changed your mind?” Lauren asked.

“I need to talk to you about something,” Sara said.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. I—I just want to talk.”

Lauren and Sara had drifted apart recently. After being best friends for years, she wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was just the way it had to be. Now Sara seemed to be opening the door again. At least a crack.

“Okay,” Lauren replied. “We don’t have to stay long. We don’t even have to play.”

The morning of the game was one of those late summer days that breaks your heart with its perfection. A warm sun, a soft, cloudless blue sky, the trees and bushes still plump and green. Lauren waited for Sara at the field. They’d be in and out in a flash, then head over to Starbucks.

She hadn’t counted on the seniors. She didn’t know they were planning to haze them that day. When Heather and Claire ran up, breathlessly whispering what they’d overheard, Lauren scowled. How could her friends be so excited? They seemed almost hungry for the chance to be humiliated. Lauren wanted to leave right then. She should have.

Two seniors sauntered over, both holding cans of beer. Lauren knew them; uninspiring girls whose interests were limited to boys, clothes, and cars. One of them twirled a lock of hair. They wanted Sara, they said.

“Sara?” Lauren replied. “What for?”

The girls exchanged glances. “She needs some attitude readjustment,” one said.

Lauren crossed her arms.

“She thinks she’s hot shit,” the other chimed in. “It’s time to teach her a lesson.”

“Sara? Are you kidding? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You know.” The first girl threw her a meaningful look.

An icicle of fear slid down Lauren’s spine. “No. I don’t.” Sara was beautiful. Every boy in school probably had wet dreams about her. But Sara didn’t flirt. Or lead them on. Lauren had seen her back off when some guy mustered up the courage to approach her. Still, that didn’t stop people from being jealous.

“You ever heard about invasion of privacy?” The second girl took a swig of beer.

So that was it. Lauren broke eye contact with her.

“She’s got to stop messing around in everybody’s business. Trying to know it all,” the first girl said. “She’s not Diane Sawyer. Time for her to realize that.”

Lauren shrugged, as if it couldn’t mean less to her. Except it did. Sara had been getting a reputation for asking personal questions. Trying to find out who was doing what with whom. She read other people’s notes, and someone even accused her of stealing their diary, although why anyone was dumb enough to bring a diary to school was another thing. Lauren thought she knew why Sara was doing it and warned her to tone it down. Sara countered that she wasn’t the only one. Heather, for example, was worse. But Heather wasn’t beautiful like Sara.

Now Lauren steeled herself. “What are you going to do?”

“Actually, you’re going to do it. You and her other little friends.”

When they told her what they wanted her to do, Lauren didn’t like it. Still, if she didn’t go along, the seniors would make her life miserable. Sara’s too. That was something they didn’t need. So when Sara arrived, Lauren told her to be cool and just go with the program. Let them take her into the clearing and put the bucket on her head. Sara hesitated but finally agreed once Lauren promised it would be over in a few minutes and everyone would tell her what a good sport she’d been. Sara always wanted everyone to like her.

Lauren was sure Sara would find her way back to the field. But then she heard the clang of the bat against the bucket. And what sounded like screams. Not just screams of surprise or annoyance. Lauren knew they were screams of pain. Unbearable, excruciating pain.

***

Lauren turned the music up. Shake it off, she ordered herself. She went to her closet, threw open the door, and pulled out a pair of jeans and her Prada jacket. She glanced at the clock-radio on her nightstand. Almost seven. Her parents had strict rules about being home on school nights, even if she didn’t have any homework. Which was usually the case. Unless there was a paper, Lauren could get most of her work done during classes or study hall. Whoever said high school was hard must have been stupid. She slipped on her clothes, then shut down the computer.

As she crept down the stairs, she stayed close to the banister. The stairs didn’t creak on that side. The wicked witch was talking on the phone in the kitchen. Lauren pictured her mother perched on a stool near the wall where the granite counter met the Mexican wall tiles. She’d have downed two glasses of wine by now, but her makeup and hair would still be perfect. So too, the body she spent hours sculpting at the gym, just so she could replicate what Lauren took for granted. Lauren couldn’t resist a smirk.

The hard part was getting out the door. Usually she went out through the garage, but that meant walking through the kitchen. If she was quiet, she could probably duck out the front. The red alarm signal would blink, but with her mother on the phone, chances were she wouldn’t notice.

She slunk past the Chagall in the hall. Her parents never tired of telling everyone it was an original, and if anyone had the gall to ask how much it cost—which was exactly what they wanted—they’d paste on a bland look and say, “Oh, that’s something we never discuss.”

She got to the door and stopped. No warm, mouth-watering aromas drifted out from the kitchen. Only the antiseptic smell of cleaner and furniture polish. Homey smells were for company only. Her mother had taken to bringing things home from FoodStuffs. There was no reason to cook, her mother claimed. Lauren’s father rarely made it home for dinner, and he didn’t like to eat things that had been sitting out. The first part was true. Her father never came home before ten. But the “sitting out” part was bullshit. The meals her mother brought home from FoodStuffs had been “sitting out” in the store for hours, sometimes days.

Lauren listened to her mother’s conversation. It was about Uncle Fred; how he died in the fire a couple of weeks ago. Just when he was struggling to come back from the stroke. Lauren had loved Uncle Fred, and she cried when she heard the news. When she was younger and her parents were out of town, he’d take her out for dinner. Sometimes a movie. But then there was the stroke, and he wasn’t the same. Her mother thought that’s how the fire started. He probably turned on the stove to cook something and forgot all about it.

Then Sara was killed by that creep a few days later, and Lauren cried again. Why did death take the people she loved? If this was what life had in store for her, she didn’t want any part of it.

Now she pulled the door open, slipped out, and quietly closed it. She skipped down the three concrete pads over the goldfish pond. Her mother always corrected her. They were koi, not goldfish. How many other people had fishponds in their front yard? Then again, how many other people lived in a house like this?

She opened the door to her Land Rover and got in. Keying the engine would give her away. Even her half-drunk mother couldn’t help but notice. She started the car anyway.

Vigilante - Claude Bouchard

Vigilante Blurb

Montreal . . . the long, hot summer of 1996. . .

. . . and in the dark of night, moving like a shadowy wraith, a vigilante prowls the city's streets.

The targets of his bloody rampage: the worst of the worst.

Murderers. Gangbangers. Rapists.

Six months. Sixteen murders. The harried police are still without a clue . . .

. . . until the day they receive an email from the assassin himself.

Lieutenant Dave McCall, head of Montreal's Special Homicide Task Force, needs help to crack the secrets of the killer's taunting message. He calls on an expert--Chris Barry, who runs a security firm specializing in computer communications.

Together, McCall and Barry launch a grim quest to track down a man who preys on predators--an urgent quest to bring this remorseless killer to justice.

But whose justice will prevail: theirs--or the vigilante's?

Vigilante

Claude Bouchard

All rights reserved

Copyright © 1995 by Claude Bouchard

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales are purely coincidental.

Published by Claude Bouchard

Kindle Edition

Prologue

The old man was drunk again. That usually meant trouble.

The ten year old boy silently backed his wiry, four foot four inch frame away into the recesses of the attic, his secret place, as he called it. There, he would be safe as long as he remained quiet because the bastard turned violent when he got drunk.

The youngster worried about his fifteen year old sister though, who had arrived ten minutes before their stepfather had. He had heard then seen her through the ventilation grill set in the ceiling of her room as she came in and tossed her worn packsack onto the bed. However, she didn’t know he was there as nobody knew about his secret place. They never used the attic.

He had watched as she had examined her face in the dresser mirror and ruffled her wavy, shoulder-length, dirty-blond hair before sticking her tongue out at her reflection. Though he’d never told her, he thought that she was getting prettier every day but she was never happy with how she looked or with the worn, no-name clothing she had to wear.

“Where the fuck is everybody?” the old man hollered angrily as he plodded heavily up the stairs.

The boy could hear the stupid drunk bounce off one wall, then the other as he stumbled upwards. Laying flat on his stomach, the youth quietly started inching back towards the ventilation grill, being careful not to snag his baggy jeans on the rough, wooden floor. Doors could be heard slamming open and closed in the upstairs hallway. He reached the grill and peered down through it at his older sister, wishing that there was some way he could magically beam her up to him, like they did in Star Trek.

She was seated on the bed with knees gripped under her chin, huddled in the corner and trembling with intense fear as she stared at the door. She visibly stiffened as the footsteps approached, causing a nauseous wave to wash over her brother as he secretly but helplessly watched on. The footsteps stopped on the other side of the door and silent seconds went by, serving only to increase each sibling’s private terror.

‘Please go away. Leave her alone!’ the boy pleaded in his mind, biting his knuckles to keep from screaming.

At that moment, door crashed open, causing his sister to jump with fright.

“Howya doin, girly?” their stepfather snarled with a leering smile. “Didn’t ya hear me callin?”

“I, I was studying,” she stammered in a thin voice. “I didn’t hear you. I’m sorry.”

From the safety of his hideout, the boy could now see the stocky, forty-something year old slob with his greasy, greying hair, dirty blue jeans and bulging belly under his tight t-shirt. His unsteady stance made it clear that he had gone drinking after his shift at the machine shop if he had gone to work at all.

“Where’s your mama, sweetie?” he slurred, approaching her.

“She’s-she’s out, I guess,” the girl replied, trying to sound confident but not succeeding. “But she should be back real soon.”

The old man smiled again, more of a sneer, as he wavered slightly.

“And that little shit brother of yours?” demanded her stepfather. “Where’s he at?”

“I-I don’t know,” she mumbled. “No one was home when I got here.”

“So it’s just you and me, huh, kiddo?” he mused, scratching his stubble thoughtfully as his cold bleary eyes wandered over the forms of her body beneath her thin, yellow sundress.

“I’m sure Mom will be back real soon,” she repeated tearfully as she shrunk into the corner, shivering with terror.

The old man grinned at her for a few seconds, then stepped back and pushed the door shut.

As he returned, he started unbuttoning his jeans and retorted, “Well, girly, real soon is just not soon enough for me today. You’re just gonna have to fill your mama’s shoes.”

The boy rolled away from the grill, not wanting to see what was taking place. His sister shrieked and several slaps were heard amidst a muttered “Quiet, little lady.” Covering his ears, the youngster cowered in the darkness and silently wept with frustration. But, what could he do? He was only ten.

After a minute or two, the boy heard the bedroom door below swing open and slam shut and everything grew quiet. With tears in his eyes, he crawled forward and once again peered down through the grill.

Their stepfather was gone but his sister was still there, lying on the bed, whimpering and shaking uncontrollably. Her dress was ripped and he could see her exposed breasts, scratched and bruised. Her left eye, just above the cheekbone, was already starting to swell from when the pig had hit her and the sheets were spattered with blood.

He began to soundlessly weep once more as he vowed that he would get even when he was older.

Chapter 1 - Tuesday, June 25, 1996

8:00 p.m. Sandy was at school, her last night of the spring term and would not be home for a while. She had mentioned that she would be going for a drink or two after class with a few fellow students to celebrate the completion of another semester. She would therefore most likely not be home before midnight. She never was on such occasions as she enjoyed these mini social events.

With Sandy out, he was alone for the evening but this had never proved to be a problem in the past and this night would not be any different. He was perfectly capable of looking after himself and could always find a way to occupy his time.

He pulled on some black Levi’s and a dark t-shirt, slipped into his black Reeboks and laced them securely. Leaving the bedroom, he descended to the main floor, headed for the foyer closet and retrieved his black leather jacket. No studs or chains, just black leather. He slipped into the coat and donned a black baseball cap. Dark, reflective aviator glasses completed the ensemble.

Examining his image in the mirrored doors of the closet, he flashed himself a grin and murmured, “Perfect, as usual.”

It was time to go.

After setting the security system for the house lights and alarm, he picked up his small canvas bag and hopped down the short flight of stairs leading to the garage.

Once there, he hesitated for a few seconds as usual, tempted to use the Corvette, all black and waxed and shiny. But no, that would be too conspicuous, and frankly, not practical. Sighing, he climbed into the mini-van, turned the engine as the garage door opened, and sped off into the evening.

* * * *

She was sitting at the bar of her favourite watering hole, somewhat frustrated thanks to the two jerks who had been ogling her and flashing their stupid smiles.

‘Why can’t a girl blow off some steam in peace after a tough day like guys do?’ she wondered, annoyed.

She hoped that the two idiots would get bored and look elsewhere. After all, she hadn’t done anything to attract their attention. She had even refused to accept the drink which they had ordered for her. She was just trying to relax after a hard day at the office.

“Another Manhattan?” the bartender offered, interrupting her thoughts.

“One more,” she replied curtly, glancing towards her antagonists. “On my tab.”

“Don’t let them get to you, Eileen,” the beefy barkeep suggested understandingly, nodding in the direction of the two suits. “Just a couple of schmucks, that’s all. Ain’t no way they’re gonna bother you while I’m around.”

“Thanks, Alain,” she responded, flashing a grateful smile. “And, in the end, you’re right. They are just a couple of schmucks and all they did is look at me.”

She grinned suddenly then theatrically added, “Alas, regardless of how inconspicuous I try to appear, I fear I must accept that I’m a looker.”

“And a modest looker at that.” laughed Alain as he went off to fix her drink.

Eileen Baker was, in fact, a very attractive woman. Though now a seasoned advertising executive at the age of thirty-two, her long, dark curly hair, green eyes and stunning smile had allowed her to comfortably pay her way through university as a part-time magazine and catalogue model. At five feet, four inches, her slender, sculpted shape turned heads whether clad in blues jeans and a t-shirt or a skirt suit and heels as she now wore.

Before Eileen realized it, the third drink was nearly gone and she was actually feeling better. The two shirts and ties at the end of the bar were engrossed in the sports news playing on the big screen T.V. and seemed to have lost interest in her. They didn’t look like bad guys after all; probably married, with kids. Simply a question of excited hormones; men were like that. All you had to do was confront them, mention their wives, and they couldn’t look you in the eye if their lives depended on it.

Some good rock’n’roll was playing in the background, Springsteen, mid-seventies. The place was filling up, even if it was only Tuesday night. But after all, it was only 8:45 and this was one of the more popular spots downtown. Many, like her, worked late and needed to wind down a bit before going home for a few hours of sleep and starting all over again. Ah, life in the fast lane, living in the 90s, work, work, work.

She drained her glass and although tempted to have another, decided against it. She was driving, plus, she had an important presentation to make in the morning. She signalled Alain, paid her tab along with the usual generous tip and headed for home.

* * * *

He pulled onto a side street off Sherbrooke and found a parking spot with little trouble. It was still early and crowds did not tend to flock downtown on Tuesday nights.

Cutting the engine, he climbed out and engaged the car alarm. One could never be too careful on these streets; which incidentally was why he had come here in the first place. A few minutes of searching at best and he was confident that he would find some action. At least, this was what he hoped.

* * * *

Eileen had been lucky enough to find a parking spot on Aylmer, just one short block from the bar. She didn’t particularly like this area in the evening but, then again, no sector of the downtown core could be considered completely safe once darkness set in. Drunks, junkies, the homeless and gangs had slowly but surely taken over night-time downtown during the last fifteen years. Crime rates had risen drastically and the city administration’s efforts to curb them had failed miserably; life in the 90s.

As she rounded the corner, Eileen heard the clatter of steady, rapid footsteps coming down the sidewalk behind her. She quickened her pace and her car was in sight.

Reaching her vehicle, she threw a glance over her shoulder while she fumbled in her purse for her keys. The two suits from the bar were heading towards her.

Frantically, she tried to unlock the car door but before she could get the key in the lock she felt someone press up against her and firmly grip her waist.

“Pretty early to head home, sweetheart, don’t you think?” the voice whispered from behind. “Why don’t we go for that drink now?”

Although frightened, she turned to glare at him, the younger one, and firmly shot back, “I’m not sure your wife would appreciate that.”

Grinning over his shoulder at his older buddy, her aggressor mocked, “Isn’t that sweet? The young lady is concerned about my old lady.”

Turning back to her, he snarled, “Maybe you’re right, bitch. Maybe we don’t have time for a drink.”

With that, he grabbed her around the chest, pinning her arms, while covering her mouth with his other hand. While his older accomplice kept watch, he proceeded to half drag, half carry her struggling form towards a dark alley close by.

Once into the alley, he threw her to the pavement in the corner formed by two brick walls. Eileen started to scream and he rewarded her with a slap across the mouth.

“Keep that up sweetheart, and this evening may become unpleasant.” her attacker hissed threateningly.

Leering at her maliciously, he unzipped his pants and moved in on her as she cowered in the corner in terror. At that moment, her aggressor heard a sudden gurgling, gasping sound behind him and turned to find his older accomplice lying on the ground, legs flailing as he clutched his throat.

As he stared in stunned, uncomprehending silence, he noticed a dark pool rapidly forming around the older man’s head. Looking up, he realized that another man stood a few feet away, a long, thin knife in one hand and a baseball bat in the other. In the dim light, he noticed that the blade of the knife was stained and dripping. His buddy had now ceased moving and lay lifeless on the ground.

The stranger calmly crouched down over the body and carefully wiped the blade on the dead man’s jacket. He then pressed a button on the knife’s handle, causing the blade to disappear, and slipped the weapon into a pocket.

Returning to a standing position, he turned his attention to Eileen and spoke.

“Miss, I believe that you should be on your way. I am truly sorry for any inconvenience these gentlemen may have caused you and I promise they won’t ever do it again.”

Speechless and in tears, Eileen rose on shaky legs and bolted down the short alley to the street. Within seconds, the gunning of an engine was heard, followed by the car’s tires screaming off into the night.

The stranger, wielding the bat, turned towards the younger assailant who was frantically struggling with his pants zipper.

“Now my friend,” he announced with a deadly smile. “It’s my turn to have some fun.”

Chapter 2 - Wednesday, June 26, 1996

6:00 a.m. Chris Barry awoke to the opening lines of Etheridge’s “Come to my Window” playing on the clock radio. Quickly, he turned off the alarm to avoid waking his wife who slept peacefully beside him.

He gazed at her and thought, as he had many times before, how lucky he was to have her. If anything, she was more beautiful now than she had been when he had first met her fifteen years earlier. Back when she was eighteen.

With a sigh of contentment, he climbed out of bed and made his way into the bathroom adjoining their bedroom, closing the door quietly so as not to disturb her.

Theirs was a good life and Chris was proud of what he had accomplished to date.

Following high school, he had felt that studies weren’t as important as money was so he had headed for the labour market. After having held a couple of clerical jobs however, he had soon realized that if he wanted more, a further education would in fact come in handy. He had therefore enrolled at a local university and following several arduous years attending night classes, had obtained his degree in business administration. Now, at the ripe old age of thirty-four, he was Executive Vice President and Chief Operating Officer of CSS Inc., preceded only by Walter Olson, the company’s founder, President and CEO.

CSS Inc., which was rapidly becoming the leader in computer security and related investigations, had been founded by Walter a number of years ago. Initially operating under the name of SecurInvestigations Ltd., its origins had been as an investigation and security firm, offering its services to corporations with internal crime problems. In addition, it had supplied security services for public events such as concerts and conventions.

Although the firm had gained a respectable reputation in its field over the years, changing times had gradually rendered prosperity an elusive objective. Faced with dwindling revenues due to growing competition and altering markets, Walter Olson had been attempting to identify diversification possibilities to give his company the rebirth it so justly deserved. That had been eight years ago. That was when Walter had met Chris Barry.

Chris had approached Walter on a cold call to offer his services. He had explained to Walter how limiting his business to the saturated niche of conventional investigative services was stifling, if not adversely affecting its growth. He had spoken of rapidly changing technology in the corporate world and of new opportunities for white collar crimes, thanks to the ever increasing use of computers. He had elaborated about viruses, record falsification and embezzlement possibilities which worsened on a daily basis due to the growing information highways. He had talked about the ease with which computer buffs with criminal minds could enter systems via modems and modify records to suit their needs. He had, in effect, described a market of computer security and investigations which was there for the taking.

This was an area which Walter, an old-timer, knew nothing about. However, the young man sitting before him obviously knew what he was talking about and presented his ideas with tremendous energy. Maybe this was the way to the future.

Walter had little to lose as his company was going down at a rapid pace. In addition, there was something about this Barry fellow, the way he exuded confidence that stroked Walter in just the right way. On a whim, he had offered Chris a job.

Within two years, annual revenues had increased tenfold, from twenty million to two hundred million. After five years, the company by then known as CSS Inc. (Computer Security Services), had surpassed the billion dollar mark in sales and had gone public. Revenues for the current year were expected to exceed 3 billion dollars.

Although the firm continued to offer investigative and security services, its success in recent years was clearly owed to the world of computers. Under the skilful guiding hand of Chris Barry, a security software division had been formed, with Chris personally handling all facets including recruiting activities, hiring only the best young minds.

CSS now boasted the reputation of leading the way in the field of systems security, counting among its clients such giants as Bombardier, BCE and American Express as well as many government agencies, both in Canada and the United States. Eighteen months earlier, the company had completely revised the systems security for the police departments of Montreal and a dozen other communities in the surrounding areas. Similar contracts were currently in the works with Toronto, Calgary and Vancouver as well as with a handful of major American cities.

Walter was an honest man who believed in rewarding for jobs well done. For Chris, this had represented a rapid ascension to the number two spot in the company, accompanied by the salary, stock options and other perks which went hand in hand with such a high level position.

‘Yes, this is a good life,’ Chris thought as he turned off the shower. ‘Health, money, power, and my amazing wife, to share it with.’

He quickly dressed and kissed his still sleeping angel before leaving for his 8:00 a.m. meeting. He was confident that this morning, they would wrap up the contract with a fourth major bank in as many months. Yes, this was a good life.

* * * *

Lieutenant Dave McCall turned onto Aylmer and parked his Ford Explorer by a conveniently placed ‘No Parking Anytime’ sign some twenty yards from his destination. After cutting the engine and pulling down the sun visor to display his police permit, he slid his tall, lanky form out of the 4x4 and covered the short distance quickly with his usual long strides.

As he approached, he scanned the area, taking in a mental image of the site of Montreal’s two most recent murders. The alley had already been cordoned off and several uniformed officers were standing guard to keep the growing crowd of curious onlookers away from the crime scene. From the street, one could see what appeared to be two bodies in the alley, both covered with sheets. The large brownish-red stains also apparent on the concrete pavement made it obvious that the victims had most likely not succumbed to natural causes.

Making his way through the throng in his customary determined fashion, McCall ducked under the yellow tape and spotted Detective Frank Bakes, clad in his usual wrinkled chinos and worn grey tweed jacket. Bakes, who had taken charge of the scene pending his superior’s arrival, glanced up from his notes as the impeccably dressed lieutenant approached.

“This one’s pretty messy, Dave,” The solidly built detective announced grimly as his boss strode up to him. “One got his throat slashed, which isn’t too bad. The other one though, makes keeping your breakfast down somewhat of a challenge. Definitely the worst beating we’ve seen so far. Poor bastard must’ve got whacked with a pipe or something about twenty times. Good thing he had ID because I don’t even think they could have depended on dental records to identify him. The son of a bitch smashed his face.”

“Were they punks again?” McCall asked tersely, staring down at the sheet covered victims.

“No,” Bakes shook his head in puzzlement as he gestured towards the bodies. “That’s what makes this one strange; two guys in suits and ties. Preliminary checks indicate no records. Card key passes identify them as employees of Heritage Mutual, some insurance company.”

“Could it be a mugging gone bad?” suggested McCall as he crouched down and raised the sheet to examine the first cadaver.

“Nope. Doesn’t look like it.” disagreed Bakes, running a hand through his perpetually dishevelled, short dark hair. “They both still have their wallets loaded with credit cards and cash. If you’re gonna go to this much trouble to rob a guy, you might as well finish the job.”

“Who found the bodies?” McCall enquired, dropping the sheet back in disgust over the first victim and heading towards the second.

“Owner of that restaurant,” replied Bakes with a sudden mischievous grin as he pointed. “Came out to throw some trash into the dumpster. He isn’t feeling too good right now.”

“I’ll guess that we don’t have any witnesses?” asked Dave, already knowing the answer.

Frank shook his head. “I have a couple of uniforms ringing doorbells, asking if anyone heard or saw anything unusual. They haven’t reported back yet.”

“Alright,” sighed McCall through clenched teeth as he stared at the second corpse, the battered one. “I’ll let you finish up here. There’s not much I can do anyway.”

He took one last look before covering the victim’s mutilated face then glanced up at Bakes as he spoke. “Try to get your report to me by tomorrow morning so I can add it to our impressive collection.”

There was no mistaking the sarcasm in his voice.

Dave McCall could not remember a time when he did not want to be a cop. He was convinced that it was a hereditary trait, following in the footsteps of his father, grandfather and great-grandfather. It was in his blood.

Upon completing high school at the age of seventeen, he had enrolled into the three year Police Technology programme in Lennoxville. He had then gone on to complete a graduate degree at McGill University with majors in law and criminology. He could have passed the bar and become a lawyer, in fact he was sometimes mistaken for one in court with his chiselled features and six foot, slender yet muscular frame sporting his made-to-measure designer suits; but Dave McCall wanted to be a cop and nothing else. It was in his blood.

He had joined the force at the age of twenty-four, right around the time he had married Cathy. They had met when she was four. He had been five. Best of friends over the years, they had realized by their late teens that they were in love. Today, they still remained best of friends.

From the onset, Dave had worked hard to prove himself and by the age of twenty-eight, he had made detective and was working homicide. It was obvious to his superiors that Dave was a superstar and that his ascension through the ranks was far from over. Now, only three years later, he was completing his first year as lieutenant heading a special division of homicide with a dozen detectives reporting to him.

Located in an old office building on Cypress just off Dominion Square in downtown Montreal, the Special Homicide Task Force Centre did not resemble the typical police station. A receptionist, rather than a desk sergeant, greeted visitors and uniformed officers were rarely found on site. Barring the two holding cells at the back, the place could have been mistaken for the offices of any given business.

Just as untypical as its locale were the affairs in which the Task Force was involved. McCall’s division concentrated only on the bizarre, high profile and extraordinary murders which took place in his fine city. In addition, his team was often called upon to lend a hand in similar cases outside its official jurisdiction.

Approximately six months earlier, two days before Christmas, this most recent series of murders had started. Although the majority had occurred in or near the downtown sector, a few had taken place in the suburbs.

To date, the slayings all had two points in common. For one, the victims, without exception, had all been known to the authorities; gang members, pushers, pimps and the like. Secondly, all had died by one of two means. Either their throats had been viciously slashed or they had been bludgeoned to death with a club of sorts.

As Dave made his way back to the office, he considered these two latest killings and agreed with Frank Bakes that they were puzzling. Sure enough, the methods of execution matched the others though this particular beating had been exceptionally brutal. However, these two victims were not criminals. Neither even had a record of an outstanding parking ticket. Apparently, they worked for an insurance company; managers or sales reps, based on their attire. Their wedding bands indicated that both were family men.

Thus far, the choice of targets had suggested the work of some nut-case vigilante, saving the innocent from the trash of our society. But if that was the case, why had these two ended up on the killer’s selection list? Either the presumed pattern had been a coincidence or these latest victims were.

It was possible that some other wacko had decided to copy-cat the Vigilante. God only knew the press had been talking enough about this rash of murders over the last six months, especially that idiot, Ron Henderson, from the Gazette who practically praised the Vigilante whenever another execution occurred. “If the cops aren’t taking care of the garbage on the street, at least somebody is,” was the reporter’s clear message. What Henderson obviously didn’t realize was that this kind of rampant journalism was exactly what often spurred unbalanced individuals to duplicate such atrocious crimes in hopes of getting their fifteen minutes of fame. Criminal history showed numerous examples of copy-cats committing gruesome crimes and then confessing to other hideous acts they had not even committed. If this turned out to be the case with the two last murders, McCall intended to make Henderson pay, one way or the other.

But did such a person, this Vigilante, even exist? To be honest, even Dave’s division had no tangible evidence linking any of the murders to date. What they had was a growing number of victims, all criminal barring two, all singled out and executed by blade or club with never a witness. These similarities led to a hunch, a gut feeling which was strong enough to convince McCall that these last two victims had, for some reason, also fallen prey to the person responsible for all the other deaths.

He had a serial killer on his hands. Unfortunately, after eighteen murders, he did not have anything which even faintly resembled a lead.

* * * *

Sixty year old Walter Olson whistled cheerily as he strolled down the hallway leading to the executive suite at CSS headquarters, waving to some employees and greeting others in offices and cubicles he passed along the way. Once passed the floor to ceiling glass doors leading into the suite, he poked his head through the doorway of Celine, his assistant’s office, gave her a big smile and thumbs-up as she was on the phone, crossed the foyer to the boardroom and entered.

Seated comfortably at the far end of the expansive room, feet crossed atop the mammoth conference table and sporting a huge grin, Chris Barry watched his short, roly-poly boss come in and drop into his usual chair at the opposite end. The younger man had already shed his jacket and loosened his tie while Walter had escorted the five top executives of Century Bank on their way out.

The meeting had gone extremely well, with Chris effortlessly presenting the final sales pitch and Century Bank signing the contract. CSS Inc. would replace the computer security systems in each of Century’s 625 branches and would handle all of the bank’s future investigative work. Walter was not surprised as he had seen Chris wow his audience with such presentations more times now than he could remember. Not only was his young COO extremely bright, he was also good-looking, charming, respectful and sincere. During the eight years that Walter had known Chris, he had never heard a negative comment about the man be it from within or outside the firm.

“What the hell do you need me for?” Walter bellowed, beaming at Chris. “Do you realize how much money this company would save if it didn’t have to pay my huge salary?!”

“All I do is present the deals you so wisely come up with, Walt,” Chris responded with a serious air. “If the customers are lining up to buy our services, it’s because you built a damn fine company. You started this place so if it weren’t for you, it wouldn’t exist. I’m just the humble messenger.”

“Bullshit, Barry!” Walter guffawed. “What are you sucking up for this time, another raise or another stock option?”

“Both,” Chris winked.

“I figured as much,” chuckled Walter, shaking his head in mock despair as he stood and headed to the small but well stocked liquor cabinet in one corner. “Now, we just signed another major deal and I’m kind of thirsty. It must be four o’clock somewhere, right?”

Author Bio

I was born in Montreal, Canada, where I still reside with my spouse, Joanne. I completed my studies in human resources, accounting and management at McGill University and worked in various management capacities in the fields of HR and finance for a handful of firms for what seemed like decades, because it was. I should also mention I love pizza, but who doesn't and, in my opinion, nothing rocks more than cooking on the grill.

My first stab at writing was in 1995, the result being my first novel, Vigilante. This was subsequently followed by The Consultant (1996) and Mind Games (1997), all of the same series.

Professional obligations and other creative interests led me away from writing for a number of years but I found myself busy at the keyboard in 2009 with The Homeless Killer after having finally published my first three novels. I then followed up with 6 Hours 42 Minutes in 2011, also part of the VIGILANTE Series born from Vigilante. In July 2011, I released ASYLUM, my first stand-alone novel and Discreet Activities, my sixth VIGILANTE Series crime thriller was published in January 2012. I think I'm really starting to like this writing thing.

Besides writing, editing and promoting my work, I also spend some artistic energy with my five guitars, oil paints and watercolours. Other passions include cooking (big time with fine wine to go with it, of course), reading, traveling and working out just enough to stay fit. It should also be noted that following several years of practice, I now excel at being cat furniture for Krystalle and Midnight, or so they tell me.

Links

Website: http://www.claudebouchardbooks.com

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/claude.bouchard2

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/ceebee308

Email: claude@claudebouchardbooks.com