The Warning
by S.L. Pierce
Copyright 2011 S.L. Pierce
Smashwords Edition
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
I had just settled into my office when I saw the new hire, Jon, working his way toward me.
“Morning Gwen,” he said, leaning on the doorjamb.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Can’t I just be saying good morning?”
“No. What do you want?” The words were harsh, but the tone was joking.
“You know I got my first case yesterday.”
“Yes Jon,” I said as I booted up my computer.
“Well, I thought you might find it interesting.”
“Did you?” I smiled.
“Yeah, a robbery at a jewelry store. Cops haven’t gotten anywhere so the store owner hired us. The police experts say the security tapes weren't tampered with. They're one hundred percent sure. But one minute the jewelry is there. Next minute it’s gone.”
I work for a company that investigates crimes companies don't want to report. Things that wouldn't look good if they went public. Once in a while, though, we were asked to figure out how a crime was committed when the police couldn't.
“Jon, if you need help just ask,” I said.
Jon blushed. “I’m just not sure what to do.”
“Alright. So the jewelry is there and then gone?”
“Yes.”
“Then the answer is right in front of you.”
“I don't...”
“Jon, do you believe in magic?”
“What?” he laughed. “No.”
“The answer is right in front of you,” I said. “Sorry, I can't help you anymore than that.”
He left, sulking a little, I think. The truth is I could have told him. But this was a test. A very important test for new hires. The point being to see who could think for themselves. It should have taken about two seconds to dismiss what the 'experts' said and investigate the tapes himself. Obviously they had been tampered with. But Jon wasn't doing that. He was trying to make what the 'experts' said fit the crime. He couldn't question authority.
It didn't look good for Jon's future at the company.
**********
“Ms. Roberts is here,” my boss Allen informed me at ten.
“Be right there,” I said.
I had a feeling this meeting was not going to go well. Ms. Abigail Roberts had hired us to find out who was stealing from her storeroom. It was obvious she already knew or she would have called the police. But she didn't want her grandson going to jail, nor did she want her other employees to know he was stealing. She just wanted a little proof to make him stop.
But I had followed him, gotten to know him in his hidden moments, and this was not going to work. He wouldn't scare because he knew she would never turn him in. He knew and I knew. Ms. Roberts didn't know though. I'm sure she thought she could be strong enough to turn him in, but when it came right down to it, the picture of him behind bars would be too much and she'd cave.
They were all waiting in the conference room. Allen, Ms. Roberts, and her grandson Patrick, who looked bored.
“Good morning Ms. Roberts,” I said, ignoring Patrick.
“Good morning Gwen,” she smiled warmly. “How are you today?”
“I'm well Ms. Roberts. How are you?” I asked. Typically, I like to skip the pleasantries, but not with Ms. Roberts. There was something about her that just didn't allow it. And, though I hated to admit it, she made me feel happy. Which made this all the harder.
“Let's get right to it.”
I sat down and pressed play on the remote control.
The screen at the front of the room lit up. For three minutes we all sat in silence as images of Patrick stealing from his grandmother's store and her house filled the screen. There were also a few of him deliberately dinging her car as he walked by.
Ms. Roberts looked quite shaken but quickly composed herself. She was prepared for the store thefts, but not her house. And damaging her car must have felt like an especially personal attack.
“Patrick, how could you?”
Patrick looked at me, then at his grandmother. “How could I? How could you, Gram? How could you hire them to spy on me?”
Outraged. What a surprise.
“Patrick, it was for your own good.”
“My own good! How is this for my own good? You made me do this. You won't give me the money for my business. It's just fifty thousand dollars. It's nothing to you.”
“I told you. You're not ready to run a business. You need to finish college, get some experience...”
“You just don't believe in me. You think I'm stupid and worthless. I can't believe you would do this to me.”
“Patrick, I'm trying to help...”
“Fine then,” he said getting up from his chair so quick it fell over. “Call the police. Turn in your own grandson. See what your friends think then.” He gave me a look of pure hatred and ran out of the room.
“Poor Patrick,” Ms. Roberts said. “He's had it so hard. You know his father passed when he was just fourteen. I should have known this was the wrong approach.” She stood and gathered her things. “Thank you Ms. Michaels, for your time, but I want you to destroy that tape and any copies. I won't be needing them.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” I answered.
Once she left, Allen looked at me. “That's it? Yes, Ma’am? That's not like you Gwen.”
“I know, but anything else would be a waste of time. She'll never turn him in and he won't change.”
“But maybe you could have convinced her some time in jail would help him.”
“Sometimes you just have to let things go.”
He raised his eyebrows, surprised at this attitude from me. “Are you feeling alright?”
I laughed. “I'm fine. Trust me. There's nothing else we can do.”
“If you say so,” he said as we both left the conference room.
At five o’clock exactly, I shut down my computer and locked up my office. I said goodbye to some coworkers, ignoring their smiles. I always left at five, on the dot. Always. And I know they wondered why. The truth was, I was good at my job and enjoyed it, but it wasn’t my life, not anymore. It's dangerous to be all consumed with work. I know.
Jack, my husband, and I had some Chinese take out and watched Star Trek on Netflix Watch Now. We went to bed at ten and Jack was asleep by ten fifteen.
Lucky for me he's the world's heaviest sleeper.
**********
“Wake up sunshine,” I whispered, my lips close to Patrick's face.
“What?” he said, trying to roll over. His eyes popped open when he realized he couldn't move his arms or legs.
“What the hell?” he said twisting hard.
I cleared my throat and he turned his head toward me, startled. “You? How'd you get in here?”
“Little boy, I can get in anywhere, anytime. It's really important for you to remember that.”
I sat down in the chair I had pulled right up to the edge of the bed.
“You know Patrick,” I said with a deep sigh, “I'm breaking my rule for you. I never get personally involved. But you see, I like your grandmother. And I don't like many people, so that means something.”
“Let me out of here, you bitch!”
“All in good time, Patrick. I need to be sure I have your undivided attention.”
I pulled a large hunting knife from my boot. I had no plans to use it but it was quite effective in keeping his focus on me. “Let's talk about your grandmother. She was widowed at twenty eight; left with four children and no money to support them. And what does she do? Sit around and feel sorry for herself? No. She builds a thriving business. All alone. A business that supports her entire family.”
“So?”
“See, it's just that attitude that got you here. You're a spoiled, entitled, selfish prick, and if it wouldn't break your grandmothers heart, I would kill you now and be done with this. But, I've decided to give you one chance.”
“You're crazy,” he said.
I brought the knife close to his throat and leaned in close. “This is my fault. I didn't tell you to be quiet, did I?”
He cringed away from me and I could see the fear in his eyes. For all his bravado, he was just a kid.
I sat back down.
“Did you know your grandmother gives thirty percent of her profits to children's charities?”
He didn't answer.
“You're not real bright, are you? When I ask you a question, you answer.”
“What...what was the question?”
I sighed and twiddled the knife between my fingers. “Did you know she gives thirty percent of her profits to charity?”
“No, I didn't.”
“Did you know she fully funds that shelter she's always asking you to volunteer at?”
“No,” he said bitterly.
“Why are you making it so hard for me, Patrick? So hard to give you this chance. I can see what your thinking. I see it in your eyes. You're easier to read than the comics. You don't care about all the people that money helps. You can only think of how much more she must have than you thought. You don't care about anyone but yourself.”
“So,” I said, pointing at him with the knife, “here's what's going to happen. You are going to become a model citizen and doting grandson. No more stealing, no more damaging grandmas property, and you will volunteer one day a week at her shelter.”
“Why should I?” His words were so strong but I could hear the waver underneath. “You already said it would break her heart if anything happened to me.”
“Yes, but you're hurting her already. Every day you break her heart. So, if you continue, I will be forced to act. Yes, it will cause her pain, but it will be the ripping off the band-aid all at once kind of pain instead of the slow, one hair at a time kind, like you are doing now.”
“You won't kill me.”
“No, Patrick. I won't kill you. Not when someone else will do it for me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you really this stupid? You think that stuff I showed your grandma today is all I have? No, no, no, Patrick. I spared her the worst of it. I spared her a certain meeting with your greasy friend Zander. And everything that happened after.”
He paled considerably.
“I really don't even need to be here. Dealing drugs will get you dead pretty fast, and skimming from these people, even faster. I don't care about you, Patrick, but your future is written on the wall. You're going to get in over your head and then you'll drag your poor grandmother into this. And I just can't have that. So you do what I say and be a good boy.”
I cut the tape that was holding his legs. “I'll be watching Pat, and if I get the slightest hint you are causing her even the tiniest bit of worry, Zander finds out everything. Are we clear?”
He nodded.
I cut his hands free and pulled the chair back to the wall. When I turned he was charging me. God, he really was that stupid. It was an easy move I put on him, but very effective. Instead of blocking him, I stepped aside and pushed. When he hit the floor, I grabbed one arm and pulled it straight up behind him bending his wrist toward his inner arm.
“It's sad really how predictable you are. I know your every move so cut the bullshit.” I pressed harder on his hand which caused him a tremendous amount of pain. Or what he thought was a tremendous amount of pain. But he had no idea how much worse it could get. “There's nothing you can do I won't be ready for. There's nowhere I can't get to you. Try anything stupid and I will kill you myself. Are we clear?”
He didn't answer so I pushed my knee into his elbow, flexing it slightly in the wrong direction.
“I said, are we clear?”
“Yes, yes, please let go.”
“Good.” I released him and he sat up rubbing his elbow.
“Remember, Patrick,” I said bending down and looking into his eyes. “Anywhere, anytime. I. Will. Find. You.”
With all I had done, I think that was the moment he actually believed me. And he believed me because he could see the truth. And the truth was I would happily destroy him then go home and sleep like a baby. And that's not an enemy anyone wants.
**********
A week later, Allen stopped me in the hall.
“Ms. Roberts called to let us know her grandson is like a new man. She said he must have just needed some time after our meeting. He even volunteers at her shelter. Can you believe that?” His question wasn't really a question and he was watching my reaction carefully. Allen wasn't stupid.
I smiled. “I guess some things just have a way of working themselves out.”
**********
Did you enjoy this short story? Read on for a free sample of the new book by S.L. Pierce, Secrets. Available on Smashwords, Amazon, and Barnes and Noble.
Secrets...we all have them
A former government assassin...
Two men who weren't supposed to be seen together...
A cop who won't let go...
High tech industrial espionage...
Deception...
Betrayal...
Secrets is a fast paced thriller that will keep you guessing to the very end.
Gwen Michaels moved to California two years ago to start fresh, hoping her past could stay secret forever. When a hired killer shows up, she assumes her cover is blown. But when it turns out the man knows nothing of her past, the search is on for who wants her dead, and why.
Secrets
Chapter 1
“Don’t move,” he said.
It wasn't the words that concerned me. It was the cold metal pressed against my temple. That concerned me, a little. But his attack was lazy. His arm was loose, he hadn’t pulled me tightly to him, and his gun was touching, but not pushed tightly against my temple.
All big mistakes. For him.
I elbowed him high in the diaphragm while smashing the back of my head into the high profile area of his face. Namely, his nose. Not a light little tap either. This wasn’t some movie where you hit the bad guy ten times and he gets right back up. I gave it all I had, and let me tell you, that’s a lot. Before he had a chance to catch his breath, I twisted the gun out of his hand, hit him hard in the temple with said gun, and knocked him out.
My breath was steady and heart rate only slightly elevated. It had been two years, but some things you never forget.
I grabbed him under the arms, pulled him down the hall to the kitchen, and dropped him on the rug. A little duct tape from the junk drawer, and he was bound in no time.
I like duct tape better than rope. First, everyone has duct tape, whether they've ever needed it or not. I'm pretty sure it's a law. Therefore, no need to carry rope around. Looks suspicious anyway. Second, duct tape is much harder to get out of, especially when taping a much bigger area than is really needed, say halfway up the leg or arm. Even Houdini would need a knife to get out of that.
Call the police? Not my style. They have their way and I have mine. And mine is much more effective in getting to the bottom of things. No warrants or probable cause, or civil rights. You break into my house and hold a gun to my head, I don't need a judge and jury to know you're guilty.
Even if I were going to involve the police, it wouldn't be till after I made the phone call. The one that would tell me if more were coming. The one that couldn't be made from my phone. And the one that needed to be made right now.
If my instincts were right, and they usually were, this man on the floor would have an untraceable cell, either on him or in his rental car. The rental car was an assumption on my part, but again, I tend to be right about these things. I searched the man’s pockets and bingo, found the cell and some keys from, surprise, surprise, a rental car.
Using his phone, I dialed a number I had memorized two years before.
“Check 8734CharlieTangoWilco,” I said.
“Hold please.”
“Speak,” a voice commanded.
“Am I compromised?”
“No.”
I hung up. Well that answered that, but if I hadn’t been compromised, who the hell was trying to kill me?
Chapter 2
Our house, I’m still not used to saying that since it was Jack’s house when we got married last year, but he insists. So, our house is small, which suits me fine, especially now. Not many places to hide. The whole thing is twelve hundred square feet. One floor. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen and living room. That’s it.
It only took a minute to search the house and confirm the man was alone. I pulled a chair to the corner of the kitchen and sat facing him.
He was coming to and I took the opportunity to study him. There was still enough daylight streaming in the kitchen window over the sink to see without turning the lights on. The rug was six feet long and he was short of both ends so I figured he was about five foot nine with a slim build, maybe one fifty. His hair was dark, streaked with gray, but his olive skin was unlined. I put him at around thirty five. He was dressed for jogging so, most likely, he had parked a few blocks away, then jogged around checking things out, trying to look casual, like he belonged, before breaking into my house.
He was awake now and I watched while he struggled against the tape.
I smiled down at him. “Hi.”
He just glared at me.
“Why are you here?” I asked, gently tapping his gun against my thigh, in case there was any doubt about who was in control. While he was out I had checked to make sure the clip was loaded and the safety off.
No response.
Okay, if that’s the way he wanted to play it. I shifted the gun and shot him in the leg, hitting the muscled outer part of his thigh. Painful, but not life threatening. He screamed in agony.
I leaned toward him a little, “This will go a lot easier for you if I don’t have to repeat myself. Now, why are you here?”
He just grimaced.
“Suit yourself,” I shrugged.
I stood up, transferred the gun to my left hand and opened a drawer. “Let me explain how this is going to work. You’re obviously not a burglar. Only an idiot would rob a house at five thirty in the afternoon. So you’re here for another reason.”
I removed a large knife, held it up, like I was examining it, then returned it to the drawer. I repeated this slowly, with several knives, while I was talking. The whole time, making sure he saw what I was doing.
“Since you attacked me, I presume you know who I am. What you don’t know is who I was.” I took out a small sharp pairing knife. I knew all along this was the knife I would use, but there was always a chance the process would scare him enough to talk. I turned to him.
“You’re going to tell me all you know. It’s up to you if it’s the easy way or the hard way,” I said bending down next to him.
He laughed, “You don't scare me.”
“Not yet.” The movement was so fast he didn’t respond until he saw the knife sticking out of his thigh next to the bullet wound.
Chapter 3
He screamed and tried to pull away, but I held fast.
“Alright, alright, I’ll tell you.”
“I never doubted you would,” I said, removing the knife.
“Just give me a second.”
“I’ll give you five.” I got up and put the knife on the counter.
“I’m supposed to kill you and make it look like a robbery.”
“Who hired you?” I sat back down assuming I would have no more resistance from him. I know you’re never supposed to assume, but I was in the power position.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I get a name and they get an account number. They put half in when I agree. I call when it’s done and they transfer the rest of the money.”
“How’d they find you?”
“A friend of a friend kind of thing. It’s not like I run an ad.”
“You don’t work for any organization?” I asked.
“No.”
“When were you hired?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“How much?”
“Ten grand.”
“Not much for your trouble,” I said.
“It was supposed to be easy.”
“It always is.”
I tucked the gun into my pants and got a pad of paper and pen out of a drawer. “Give me the account information.”
“You must be joking,” he said.
“No, I really mustn't.”
He tried again. “I don’t know it. I have it written down,” he said looking away.
I sighed and picked up the knife.
“Alright.” He rattled off the numbers.
“The cell is to call and tell your employer I’m dead, correct? So you’re going to make that call.”
“No, I’ll never get another job if this gets out,” he yelled again struggling against the tape. He quickly shut up when he realized he’d said that out loud.
I shook my head. “You’ll never get another job if I kill you, which I will do if you don’t do what I say. Now, you make that call, and in return, I’ll leave you alive with the knife so you can free yourself. Your choice.”
“How do I know you won’t kill me anyway?”
“You don't. But it's a sure bet I'll kill you right now. Make the call and you will have at least bought yourself a few more minutes.”
“Fine.” He made the call while I held the phone and the gun to his head. I didn’t bother to write down the phone number knowing it would just lead to another prepaid phone.
“Good,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
Chapter 4
Who the fuck was this woman? This job was supposed to be easy cash. When he got the call, he was going to turn it down, since it paid so much less than his usual fee, but he was already going to California for another job. This would just be a quick stop on his way to a real target, real money. Ten grand for an hour’s work? He should have known it was too good to be true. The warning bells should have gone off.
What the hell had happened? How had he ended up on the floor with a gunshot and knife wound? With his own fucking gun, no less. In fifteen years he’d never been caught. Never even close. Every kill clean. No trace of him left behind. He never used the same weapon. Used different methods of killing so the murders couldn’t be connected. Never left a calling card like some idiots. Okay, this time he hadn’t been as careful as he usually was, but she was just a woman.
This bitch had made a big mistake pissing him off. Now it was a matter of pride. He’d come back later and finish this job. But he wouldn’t underestimate her next time. She was gonna pay. He’d make her suffer before killing her. Start with a bullet in her leg, see how she liked that. Likes knives does she? We’ll see. She’d beg him to kill her by the time he was done.
He could see the edge of the knife on the counter. If he could just reach it and get his hands free. He struggled against the tape but it was no use. He tried rolling and standing up, but his leg wouldn’t support him long enough to move more than a couple of inches. As soon as he put any pressure on it a wave of nausea swept over him from the pain and he couldn’t keep his balance.
Fuck, that bitch was gonna pay!
Chapter 5
I went to the bedroom got a backpack from the closet and threw in enough stuff for a couple of days. Jack and I couldn’t stay here and, these days, even the crappiest hotels required ID and money.
I lay on the floor, stomach down, parallel to my side of the bed, reached under my nightstand, and pressed a hidden release button. The decorative piece on the front popped out and I pulled open the hidden drawer. Of course Jack didn’t know about this. I’d hoped I would never need it. I removed a bundle of cash, some fake ID’s and credit cards, and a small black zippered case. There was also an untraceable gun, but why use it when I had the killers? I put everything back the way it was and returned to the kitchen.
I could see he was in a different position then when I left him. And the knife was teetering on the edge of the counter. God, what a stupid mistake. I was out of practice.
“Oh, so close. It must be killing you that you almost had that knife,” I said, squatting down next to him.
“You got your information. Just give me the knife,” he said.
“Why would I do that?” I asked smiling. “So you can come back and finish the job?”
I wonder what his last thought was before I shot him between the eyes.
End of Sample
Secrets e-book is available from Amazon, Smashwords, and Barnes and Noble.
Also by S.L. Pierce The Hate. Two gritty short stories in one book. The Hate is a story of revenge done right. Manhunt, the bonus short, is the story of the murder of the president with a mind blowing twist!.
The Hate Excerpt:
1
“So it is with great regret that I am forced to let the defendant go,” the judge said, lowering her gavel. It was over. I know judges are supposed to remain neutral, but the look of disgust on her face spoke volumes.
Even though we all knew it was coming, there was still a large outcry from the galleys. I say we like we were all together, but I really only knew a couple of the people present. The rest had been organized by a victims' rights group tired of laws that let criminals walk. When we heard what was coming, my friend Annie contacted them. Annie contacted everyone; newspapers, talk shows, television. I couldn’t help her. I could barely get out of bed. Of course it became a big story here in Colorado. But it only warranted a blip on the national front.
I knew the protesters didn’t have the same flame of hope I did. That somehow the judge would forget about the law just this one time. She knew what the defendant did. She knew what he was. But she couldn’t change the law by ignoring it. The protesters knew and they were ready.
“Order, Order,” she banged the gavel, but they just got louder.
“Officers, clear the courtroom.” She banged the gavel one last time and left, escorted by a bodyguard.
The extra security brought in for this ruling went into action herding people to the door. This wasn’t their first experience with this group.
I felt the pressure of Annie squeezing my hand. I could feel her eyes on me. I couldn’t look at her. I couldn’t take the pity I knew would be there. Right now I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move.
I couldn’t stop staring at him. There he was, his hand gripping his lawyers, causing the sleeve of his ill-fitting suit to ride halfway up his arm. It looked like something his lawyer picked up from goodwill. Despite protests from my friends, I chose to sit directly behind this man. I wanted him to know I was there. I wanted him to feel my hatred, my anger.
He glanced back at me, smirking. That bastard was smirking at me.
At that moment I knew I would kill him. I knew I would make him beg for his life and then I would kill him. The image appeared in my head like a movie. Maybe he actually felt the daggers coming from my eyes because he stopped smirking and looked away.
He shouldn’t have killed her. He shouldn’t have left me with nothing more to lose.
End of Excerpt
Manhunt Excerpt:
1
Right now there is a massive manhunt for me. There’s almost no chance I will be found, but just in case, I need to set the record straight. I know you think you know what happened. I mean, it has been all over the news for days. The country in mourning, shocking act of violence, and on and on. But you only know what they told you. But once I tell you everything, tell you the truth, you’ll be thanking me. I’ll be a goddamn hero. Not that anyone will admit it. Doesn’t matter though. I’ll be long gone.
So like any good story, I have to start at the beginning. I know you’d prefer me to just cut to the chase. But there are some things you need to know first.
Bear with me, you’ll be glad you did.
2
First, you should know some things about me.
I hate people. I hate small talk. Trying to find something to talk about with a bunch of strangers I’ll never see again. No thanks.
I like being alone. I’m happy alone. I don’t want to be married and pop out a couple of whiny, germ filled kids. I don’t want anyone around telling me what to do or making me feel bad about what I am doing; i.e. a husband or boyfriend.
If I want to stay up till three in the morning eating double stuff Oreos while watching St. Elmo’s Fire then that’s what I goddamn well am going to do. If I want to lay in bed till noon or not shower for a couple of days, well, you get the idea.
If I feel the need for some companionship i.e. sex, I go pick up a guy at a bar. It’s pretty easy because, in all modesty, I’m hot. Not just attractive. An actual stone cold fox, at least to enough of the population to matter. I can say that because I had nothing to do with it. All genetics. All big blue eyes, full lips, blond, tall, and lean. So sex, no problem. And since I don’t really like people or small talk, I pretty much scope out the bar for an attractive unattached guy and ask if he wants to go to my place. I’ve never been turned down.
No one spends the night. Last thing I need in the morning is some smelly guy with bad breath bothering me for something I had plenty of the night before.
Also, I’m filthy rich. I hadn’t planned on ever working for a living, but who knew I’d find something I enjoy so much. What do I do? I kill people. For money. I know what you’re thinking, but who gives a shit. Not me, that’s for sure. If it makes you feel any better I don’t kill kids, no spouses just because a divorce will cost too much (selfish bastards), but other people.
It’s not hard, partly because of because of my looks. I can get into a lot of places with no questions asked. And partly because I’m ahead of the curve on intelligence. Not a genius, but pretty damn smart.
Maybe it goes without saying that I don’t have any friends, but I’ll say it anyway. I don’t have any friends. And I don’t mean I don’t have any close friends. I don’t have any. I think it’s because I’m rich and beautiful and that intimidates people.
Or, it’s because I’m a bitch. I don’t care about people’s petty problems, I don’t take shit from anyone, and I don’t tell people what they want to hear.
So, why am I telling you all of this and why do you care? Because, I just killed the President of the United States.
End of Excerpt
The Hate e-book available at Amazon, Smashwords, and Barnes and Noble.
Also by S.L. Pierce and Maren Kaye, The Devil's Game, a psychological thriller.
Is a stranger who stalks your stalker a friend or your worst enemy?
Rachel Pendelton is determined to break from her small town past and stake out a new life for herself with a dream job in the big city. But hard work and determination are no match for whoever is working against her. When anonymous gifts show up, she’s flattered. When they appear in her locked apartment, she starts worrying. What can she do when everyone she turns to for help looks suspicious?
What she doesn’t know is that a game has begun. A game with rules as baffling as they are deadly. A game that will pit her against the criminally insane. And only one can finish alive.
The Devil's Game Excerpt:
CHAPTER 1
“I found another one.”
“It’s hardly a surprise that you would find something you spend your days looking for,” Dr. Gloria Pike said, setting down her pen and leaning back in her chair. They had been through this before.
“I don’t.”
“Let’s not pretend. Aren’t we past this?”
Patient X didn’t answer, and Dr. Pike knew there would be no more talking until she apologized.
“Sorry, please continue.”
“It was a man and woman. Too old to be students. Maybe training. Maybe working on a project. Anyway, it was clear she was the boss, and he was in love with her.”
“What made you think that?”
“It was so obvious. The way he kept looking at her. Hanging on every word. His eyes all over her face. Desperate and waiting for something, some sign. Even when he was laughing, moving closer, it was there. He wanted her so much.” The patient paused, staring out the window. “His eyes were blue. So blue.”
“And her? In love with him?”
“No. Definitely no. It was like a sad little dance. He would move in; she would move away. She never touched him. Even when he gave her many openings.”
“How did you feel, watching them?”
The patient paused as if the answer required thought. “Excited.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“Yes, I do. Do you?”
No answer.
“What did you do?” Dr. Pike asked.
“What I always do. I followed them.”
CHAPTER 2
“And the Academy Award for the best animated short film produced by a hungry grad student goes to…” Rachel could hear her heart rushing through her ears. This was it; it had to be. She was the only hungry grad student nominated this year. This was her best film. All her hard work was about to pay off in spades. But why was it taking so long to open the envelope? Wait, why is Gwyneth Paltrow making out with Billy Crystal? Open the envelope! Open the damn envelope!
The sound of Billy and Gwyneth giggling into the microphone was slowly replaced by the low hum of an alarm clock. Rachel swore several profanities as her hand slapped at the snooze button in an attempt to put an end to the irritating sound.
“Coffee,” she said out loud to her empty room. She decided to bypass her usual morning routine of fresh fruit and yoga in light of her heartbreaking loss. Especially since it was probably the only award nomination she would ever get, awake or asleep.
As she sat at her desk/art space/kitchen table savoring her heavenly cup-of-joe, her day slowly began to jell inside her brain. Today was Tuesday, which meant video production and calculus. One she loved, the other she loathed. It was heaven and hell in the span of four hours. This was her third attempt at advanced calculus, and without it, there was little hope of getting a full-time position at Mad Media Animation Studio. She was determined to get a “real job” before she turned twenty five, if for no other reason then to hold her head a little higher when her dad asked her if she needed a little extra cash, you know, to help pay for those two “artsy-type” degrees she got.
If it weren’t for Justin, there would be no hope at all. He had come to her rescue in the second week of the class, sensing her utter panic. He was incredibly gifted at translating calculus. He was also incredibly gifted at annoying her. It was so strange the way he stumbled over every word when he was talking about nothing. But open up a math book and he transformed into a loquacious chatter-box.
“Speak of the devil,” she said when she heard Sonny and Cher sing out “I got you babe” from her cell phone. Justin’s ringtone was her private joke. It referred to the movie Groundhog Day and Bill Murray’s reaction at hearing it every morning at the same time. Reluctantly, she picked up the phone and punched the little green button.
“Hey, Justin, you’re up early.” She could hear his thick nasal breathing on the other end.
“I just wanted…um.. Hi Rachel,” he said in his usual disjointed manner.
“Hi, Justin,” she said. “You wanted to ask me something?” she prompted when he didn’t respond.
“Yeah, I…how are you…I mean are you ready for the test?”
Rachel knew she was dipping her toe in dangerous waters with Justin. He was obviously not tutoring her for the fifteen dollars she made him take each time. And he wasn’t the type to come right out and ask her for a date so that she could politely refuse him and they could move past it. Oh, no. He just kept the possibility of it dangling out there like a smelly gym sock she was constantly having to politely side-step.
I’ve been completely honest! she told herself over and over. But deep down she knew it was going to end badly. It was going to end badly because as annoying as he was, he had a heart of pure gold. He loved kids and dogs. He was finishing some kind of new teaching program designed for inner-city school kids. He was funny sometimes, though not usually on purpose. And under all that God-awful geekines, he was actually kind of cute.
Don’t go there, Rachel, she told herself.
“Yep, I’m good, Justin. But thanks for calling,” she said in an I’m going to hang up now kind of way.
“Do you eat? I mean have you…or are you going to eat breakfast…do you want to meet… for coffee?” By the time he had gotten that all out, Rachel had finished her cup and was working on a second.
“Is something on your mind, Justin?” Be direct, be honest.
“Yeah… well…I mean no…not really.”
“Well, I’m glad everything’s okay. I’ve got to get going; tons stuff I’m way behind on. But I’ll see you later at class, okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” he stammered.
She ended the call not waiting for his reply. She took a deep breath as she felt the caffeine pumping through her veins, accelerating her heartbeat. She walked over to the huge living room window and looked out onto the busy metropolitan street she lived on. It was a gorgeous spring day, perfect for a jog. She knew that her calculus class always went better when she’d had a good workout before hand. It helped keep her calm and focused. Not to mention the fact that she’d wimped out on her yoga this morning. If only she could muster up some motivation. Maybe a jog to the Steam Punk Café for some iced Chai. Yes, that would do it. There had to be a reward in there somewhere or she’d never make it out the door.
“Oh crap!” she said out loud. Justin. He loved the Steam Punk. As a matter of fact, he was the one who dragged her in there for her very first cup of iced Chai.
“I don’t drink weed water,” she had politely explained under her breath as they stood in line.
“Just trust me,” he had said to her with an ear-to-ear grin. Since there wasn’t much else on the menu that was fit for human consumption, she let him order – and pay.
“Here, try this,” he said, his puppy-dog face bright with anticipation. God, he could be so annoying!
The taste was unlike anything she had experienced. The exotic spices were smooth, sweet, and spicy all at the same time. And after a four-mile jog, there was nothing more refreshing. She gave a heavy sigh as she imagined the sweet luscious taste.
“Screw Justin!” she said. “I have every right to do whatever the hell I want!” And, of course she could always pretend she was happy to see him.
She began her usual pulling of dirty clothes from the hamper in search of some decent sweat pants and matching gym socks. As she was rummaging, she noticed a pungent order coming from something in her hand. It was a pair of underwear and a bra that smelled bitter and musty, but strangely familiar. She tried to remember the last time she had been out bar hopping. It had to have been at least three weeks. Note to self, she thought, tomorrow is laundry day.
As she was closing the door on her way out, she felt hot breath on her neck right before a strong hand grabbed her shoulder.
CHAPTER 3
Dr. Pike flicked her pen against the desk repeatedly, letting her frustration show.
“How many times do we have to do this?” she asked.
“Until I get what I need.”
“And what is it that you need?”
The patient just looked out the window. Dr. Pike put down the pen, leaned back in her chair and sighed.
“Do you know why you’re here?” she asked.
“I don’t have a choice now, do I?”
“You’re here to get better.”
Patient X didn’t answer.
“They’re going to ask about your progress.”
“And you’ll tell them what they want to hear. Won’t you.” It wasn’t a question.
Dr. Pike just stared at her patient.
“Don’t worry, Doc,” the patient said, all smiles and charm now. “This one is different. This one is ‘The One’. The one I’ve been waiting for.”
“You mean the one that will give you what you want?”
“I’m afraid you just wouldn’t understand Doc. It’s complicated.”
“I think we are done for today,” Dr. Pike said, her frustration finally overwhelming her training. This game of cat and mouse was getting old, especially when both players thought they were the cat.
Patient X continued smiling, staring out the window.
CHAPTER 4
Rachel shrieked and dropped her keys. Whirling around in terror she found herself looking up at Carl, the building manager.
“Sorry about that,” he said picking up her keys. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I think so,” she said catching her breath. “I didn’t see you.” She looked around the hallway for a moment trying to figure out how he could have appeared so suddenly without being seen or heard. “Is there a problem?” she asked.
“I don’t know, Ms. Pendleton. Do you have overnight guests?”
“Excuse me?” she asked, again finding herself trying to regain her equilibrium.
She had first met Carl when he showed her the apartment she now occupied. He was wearing his trademark Levis and sleeveless undershirt. He had grease smudges here and there and an angry-looking woodpecker tattoo on his arm. He also had the look of someone who had just woken up and wasn’t quite put together yet. But under all of that, he was actually quite striking. She had thought at the time that he reminded her a little of Bruce Willis. He was lean and muscular with a strong jaw, handsome face, and intense eyes that said, Don’t mess with me, I’ve had a bad day.
“Eight women got raped today, Ms. Pendleton,” he stated plainly as if he were commenting on the weather. “Every day eight women get raped in this fair city of ours.”
Great, she thought, just what I needed today. His hands were covered in glazing putty, the smell of which was starting to make her nauseous. It was Carl’s job to replace all the broken window panes that were recently blown out from a nasty wind storm and from the look and smell of it, he had been very busy.
“Really,” she answered matter-of-factly. “I’m so glad I’m up-to-date on my self-defense training. Is there anything else?”
“I just don’t want you to be one of ‘em. I thought I saw someone leaving your apartment at three in the morning,” he said with one eyebrow arched up.
“I think I would have noticed if there was someone in my apartment last night.” Like it’s any of your business, she thought walking toward the stairway. “But thanks for looking out for me. I’ll be extra careful, Carl,” she added with a hint of sarcasm as she dashed down the stairs. Why were all the men in her life orbiting planet freak zone?
As she hit the city sidewalk, she drank in the sweet air, which inspired an extra bounce in her stride. The streets were buzzing with morning activities: the hum of trash removal, the hosing down of the sidewalk from the previous night’s revelry, and the homeless being “encouraged” to move away from store fronts. She could feel her body filling with endorphins as she hit the two mile mark and entered her zone.
Now was the time to put her day in order. Everything felt clearer in the sunshine. She would review her calculus notes on the train, no problem. She was feeling ready for anything, able to leap tall equations in a single bound, when from out of nowhere a wave of terror rose instantaneously from her gut, heaving its way through her chest and lodging itself in her throat. She came to an immediate stop gripping the roof of a tan Volvo to help steady herself as a vile thought burst into her brain. The smell of her bra and underwear from the hamper was identical to the smell of Carl’s glazing putty.
CHAPTER 5
Dr. Pike sighed and removed a digital recorder from her wall safe. For the rest of her patients, the recorder in the drawer was fine, but not this one. Not Patient X. These notes were not for her secretary to transcribe and put in a folder. These were strictly for her own use. Technically, Dr. Pike hadn’t done anything illegal. Morally, though, that was open to interpretation. However, if everything went according to plan, this could be the biggest breakthrough since lithium. But it would be tricky. There was no halfway; it was all or nothing. And if it went wrong, it could mean the end of her career.
No, it just wouldn’t do for any one else to hear this, yet.
“Patient X,” she began dictating, “has begun stalking a fourth couple. Same initial trigger, a man seemingly obsessed with a woman. Patient X follows the couple, but doesn’t know why. Or won’t explain why. Just says ‘I need answers’ but won’t discuss what the questions are. Each time patient refuses to acknowledge being the stalker, calling self ‘an observer’. Patient obviously suffers from classic transference caused by early childhood trauma, but still seems trapped in the delusion of being an innocent bystander.”
Gloria paused to take a drink of her now cold coffee.
“Previous stalkings stopped when patient realized the man was not obsessed with the woman, followed by patient falling into a deep depression. Each one worse than the last.
Though it’s been nearly a year with little to no progress, I still feel this is the right patient for my test case. A sociopath, or what is now classified as ‘antisocial personality disorder,’ with violent tendencies. The patient is highly intelligent with definite unresolved issues, despite eight years of commitment to state hospital. But patient refuses to move forward. So it is time to push the issue. Best trigger would obviously be incident with mother. Incident patient has refused to acknowledge since release from psychiatric hospital.”
The doctor stopped, lost in thought.
This had better work out, she thought to herself, after all the trouble I went through to get the damn case. Yes, in the next session she would just have to take the lead. No matter how uncomfortable it made the patient. She just couldn’t afford to wait any longer. When the tiniest bit of doubt crept into Gloria’s mind, she refused to acknowledge it.
This had to be THE patient. Her instincts were never wrong, and as soon as she read the file, the idea had blossomed from a little seedling to a full blown rose. This was the right patient! It had to be.
The phone rang disrupting her train of thought. As late as it was, it could only be one person calling.
“Hi, Dad,” she answered.
“Gloria, sweetie. How are you? I’m not interrupting, am I?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He never did. “I just wanted to let you know your mother and I are going to California next week.”
God she hated when he did this. “California? What for?” Let me guess...
“I’ve been asked to give a lecture for the Psychology Department at Stanford.”
There were so many responses to this statement squeezing at her chest, dying to get out. The familiar wave of panic flooded her veins, her heart racing as she struggled to choke out words so contrary to the truth. “Wow, Dad that’s great. Your book is still doing well then?” Of course it was.
“Yes, yes. It’s doing well. So, just wanted you to know we’d be gone.”
“Thanks Dad. Have fun.”
“Bye sweetie,” he said not waiting for her reply before hanging up.
Gloria sat in silence with her eyes closed, still holding the phone in her hand while she practiced her controlled breathing. Her fingers felt like ice, and she was having a little trouble getting the air out of her lungs so she could breath properly.
“Relax,” she told herself. “He’s not worth it...he’s just suffering from narcissistic personality disorder...it’s not about me,” she repeated to herself. “It’s not about me...”
As she regained her equilibrium, the panic slowly began to morph into rage. It’s never been about me, she thought gritting her teeth. As an adorable, bright little girl, she had been her father’s favorite over her younger siblings. He was a handsome, charming professor who loved toting her along to lectures and friendly academic social functions while her mother was at home with her twin baby brothers. He had taught her to recite the first four lines of Ode on a Grecian Urn which she happily and dutifully did when asked. His praise was so warm and nourishing to her soul, it was all she could remember wanting.
But something happened between childhood and adulthood. Her sweet devoted innocence was replaced with eager ambition. Following in her father’s footsteps was a natural reflection of her adoration for him. But somehow, the more she achieved, the more dismissive he became of her. She could still see the look on his face the day she handed him her beautifully framed certificate proclaiming her doctorate in psychology.
Her mother commented, “This is a lovely frame, dear. I hope it wasn’t too expensive.”
“Mother, I just became a doctor! It was an enormous amount of work!”
“Now, now Gloria,” her father said handing the certificate back, “There’s no need to get excited. Anyone can get a PhD these days. It’s amazing how watered down academia has become.”
The chill she had just been battling had now been replaced by a sudden flash of heat. “Bastard,” she said out loud. Moving quickly she pulled the flask out of the bottom drawer and took a drink. “Why does he do this to me?” She took another long swig of the overpriced whiskey she could barely stand the taste of.
Why does he do this? she thought. Always rubbing his success in my face. Acting like I don’t see his book on the New York Times Bestseller List every goddamned week.
She could still remember the recorded message he left on her iPhone the day he made the NYT’s top 10 in non-fiction. “I don’t know why you’re having so much trouble with your book, Gloria. This isn’t even my best work. I wrote most of it when your mother dragged me on that awful Alaskan Cruise. It was a product of boredom more than anything else,” he had chuckled, as if it was really nothing. As if everyday bestsellers just fell from the sky and landed in his Kiton suited lap.
“Enough,” she said dropping the flask back into the still open drawer, not bothering to hide it under the files the way she usually did. “My book is going to bury you, Daddy-kins. But I won’t even notice. I’ll be too busy.”
CHAPTER 6
“Iced Chai twist of lemon!” shouted a young, skinny, black-haired barista with silver adorned tongue, eyelid, nose and lip. He wore a black shirt that had Don’t Judge Me! [you air-sucking carbon-based waste of matter] printed on the front in plain white letters. “Iced Chai, anyone?” he asked again, looking directly at Rachel holding up the plastic cup.
“Oh, sorry,” she said as she gave up rummaging through her bag in search of a pen to sign the receipt from her debit card.
“You want this?” he asked holding up the cup. He had such a serious, nonchalant look on his face that she was at a total loss for how to respond.
“Ye...yes?” she asked slowly with an awkward smile. As she reached out for it he pulled it away.
“Not so fast,” he said, leering at her. He held up a pen with a silk daisy attached to it. He slowly waived the daisy end back and forth in her face. “You like daisies?” he asked.
She grabbed the pen and signed the receipt without looking at him and turned her head quickly before the expression that said, “Oh my God, what a weirdo!” forced its way into her eyes. She then sped her way to the only table that was unoccupied.
A morning that had started out so brilliantly had been abruptly turned into one of those off-kilter days where things moved in a slightly different dimension. The idea that Carl might be rummaging through her dirty laundry was a startling thought, but she knew that was impossible. The deadbolt could only be unlocked from the inside, so he would have to be a magician to get in. But still, it was hard to shake the imagery of that man anywhere near her laundry basket. She was sure there was some stupid explanation. And besides, she had actual issues in her life that did merit worry, and they had nothing to do with imaginary break-ins. She had a test today that would mean the difference between passing or flunking out and facing another semester of calculus hell. She could just see the look on the professor’s face when she showed up again at the start of the next semester, a look that said, “So, we’re taking another stab at it, are we? You know not every tree is meant to be a mighty oak.”
She took a long deep breath that turned into a sigh. Maybe her mom was right when she told her that math wasn’t a “girl thing.” What she had really meant was that it wasn’t a “pretty” girl thing. “Have you ever seen those girls in the math club?” she had asked through Rachel’s tears the last time she flunked the class. She knew her mom was only trying to make her feel better. And had she not been feeling like a complete failure at that moment, an argument would have ensued. It was just too difficult for Rachel to climb up on her soap box when there was so little she could offer in her own defense.
Her train of thought was broken suddenly by the raised voice of the severely pierced barista behind the counter. He was arguing with a young woman about adding a scone to her order. There was a pile of change on the counter, and she was digging in her bag for more. She was small, with short dark hair, somewhat disheveled, but cute. Rachel guessed she was about her age but a bit more worldly, based on the extravagantly laced tattoo that curled around her neck and back.
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