Deadly Lies
Authors: Chris Patchell
DEADLY LIES
Chris Patchell
Copyright © 2013 by Chris Patchell
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1494296527
ISBN 13: 9781494296520
To Gord, my partner in all things, without whose encouragement, cajoling, and occasional goading this story would continue to collect proverbial dust on the server. Thanks for engaging in the endless series of crazy “what if” scenarios. We spent many public lunches plotting the demise of characters who did and didn’t make it into the story.
I like a look of Agony
,
Because I know it’s true—
Men do not sham Convulsion
,
Nor simulate, a Throe—
The Eyes glaze once—and that is Death—
Impossible to feign
The Beads upon the Forehead
By homely Anguish strung
.
—Emily Dickinson
PROLOGUE
T
hirteen, fourteen, fifteen
.
She ticked the seconds off silently in her head. Her heart hammered painfully, the desperate waves of panic making it impossible to think.
Stay calm. Stay calm
, she repeated as she rifled through the drawers of what once had been her mother’s dresser.
Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four
.
Shit. It had to be here. This is right where her mother always kept it.
She slammed the drawer closed. The clap of cheap wood echoed in the quiet house. The jarring noise was a dead giveaway.
It didn’t matter though. She was out of time.
His boots rang hallow on the stairs. He was coming. She pushed back the waves of panic and tried to focus.
Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five
.
It took a total of forty-five seconds for him to climb the stairs and reach her bedroom door. She should know. She’d counted it enough times, lying awake in bed listening to the heavy tread of his footsteps and dreading what would come next.
He passed the top of the landing and headed down the narrow hall. She could feel the reverberation of his boots on the bare hardwood floors as he drew closer.
Maybe five more seconds, if he’s drunk
. Maybe. And then he would burst through the door.
Panic overwhelmed her defenses and struck her full force. She knew hiding was futile. She knew he would find her. Unable to stop herself, she ducked into the closet.
The dark welcomed her, and she slid through the curtain of her mother’s clothes. Her back softly collided with the wall. Inch by inch, she sank down until she sat hunched on the floor. Waiting.
“Ready or not, here I come,” her stepfather, Master Sergeant Samuel Morris, called out in that creepy, singsong voice, like this was some kind of sick game.
Her hands shook, and she clasped them in a tight knot under her chin. Her mother’s scent—baby powder and cinnamon—filled the small space, enveloping her like a warm cloak, and she wished she could hide here forever. Safe. Untouched.
Tears stung her eyes. God, she missed her mother. It was bad before. His punishments had always been harsh, but since her mother’s death, everything had changed.
Hot tears poured down her cheeks. She brushed them roughly away with trembling hands and cursed herself for being weak, for giving into her fear. She had to be strong. She must not cry. If there was one thing Sam liked more than the chase-me game, it was her tears, and she had no wish to give him what he wanted. He could take, but she would not give.
She bit the inside of her cheek until the rusty tang of blood filled her mouth. Sometimes the pain helped her focus. She couldn’t win, of course. He was too powerful, too relentless. But she refused to give up. There had to be a way out of the trap. There had to be. She just had to live long enough to find it.
Heavy footsteps stopped outside the door. The light bulb overhead clicked. Harsh yellow light filled the closet. She pulled her knees close, shriveling back into the shadows.
“Time’s up, Jill,” he said in his rumbling baritone.
Despite her steely resolve, thin tendrils of fear unfurled in the pit of her stomach, and she knew he was right. The game was over. And he had won. Again. Hatred burned in her eyes as she stared at the heavy beige boots encasing his size-twelve feet.
Sam parted the clothes. The hangers squealed against the metal rod, reminding her of fingernails on slate. The sound made her teeth ache.
She could smell his sour mash breath, and a wave of nausea rolled through the pit of her stomach. Tears threatened, and she forced them back behind a frozen wall. Like a caterpillar, she withdrew inside her icy cocoon to a place far beyond, where he couldn’t touch her.
“Were you looking for this?” he asked.
Master Sergeant Morris dangled a twenty-two caliber sub-compact pistol from a thick finger. Jill’s gaze shifted from the gun to the grotesque smile on his broad face and back again.
The gun. Yes. Every night as he opened her bedroom door, she’d thought about the gun, and pictured a bullet hole centered between his thick black brows. But as usual, he was two steps ahead.
Like Jesse James, he spun the pistol around his finger and tucked it neatly into the back of his fatigues.
“You like games, do you?” he asked.
“Not as much as you,” she said, in a voice that sounded steadier than she felt.
His cruel lips flattened into a thin line. Jill remained perfectly still, her face a stony mask. Sam hunkered down. His meaty hands snaked toward her. Hot fingers slithered around her neck. She shuddered and waited for them to constrict, squeezing off her airway. But they didn’t tighten. Goosebumps dimpled her icy skin as he caressed the long column of her slender throat. Their eyes locked, and as much as she wanted to, she refused to look away.
Never again, she promised herself. Never again would he touch her like this. He would pay. Somehow this sick game would end.
And no matter what the cost, she would win.
CHAPTER ONE
J
ill Shannon stood with her feet planted shoulder width apart and focused intently upon her mark.
Target acquired
. Shoulders relaxed, she squeezed the trigger of the 9 mm Glock. The acrid smell of cordite filled her head.
A cocky smile crossed her face as she stole a quick glance at her husband through the thick lenses of the protective goggles. Pressing the button to retrieve the target, she admired the tight grouping of holes that obliterated the center of the bull’s-eye. Dead-on balls accurate, as Master Sergeant Morris used to say.
Alex Shannon kept his eyes trained forward as he completed his round. His grouping was good, a little to the left of Jill’s perfect aim. He lowered his gun and cast a crooked, self-deprecating smile in her direction. “You know, you’re pretty good at keeping my ego in check,” he said as he pulled out his earplugs.
“I’m glad to hear that I serve some purpose,” she said, removing her goggles.
“Like that’s the only thing.”
“A little healthy competition is good for a marriage,” Jill said, her smile widening in appreciation of the ironic inflection in his voice. “Besides, you can’t be all that bad. They still allow you to carry a badge and a gun.”
“Yeah, that helps.”
“Girl’s got a point, Alex,” a deep voice rumbled from behind.
“What are you doing here on a Sunday morning?” she asked.
Jackson Levy was a bear of a man, six foot three, and still built like the linebacker he was back in his college days. Alex was no small guy, but next to Jackson, he looked like an undernourished middle-grader.
“Thought I’d get a little shooting in while the wife is at yoga. My own Zen moment, so to speak.”
Jill masked her surprise. Last she heard, Jackson and his wife, Michelle, were separated. If Alex knew about their reconciliation, he hadn’t let on. Of course, that was nothing unusual. They didn’t talk about work. Truth was, they didn’t talk about much at all lately.
“Sometimes I worry about you,” Alex said with a grin.
“Me? What about the two of you? If this is your idea of a date, then …” With a cocked eyebrow, Jackson let the words trail off. Stepping forward, he clamped his huge hand onto Jill’s shoulder and gave it a friendly squeeze. “How are you doing, girl?”
“Keeping out of trouble.”
“Looks like you kicked your man’s butt.”
“It’s not the first time,” Alex said, giving Jackson a sidelong glance through narrowed eyes. “Jill’s stepfather was Special Forces. She learned to shoot before she could drive. I don’t need to hear any shit from you about my marksmanship.”
“Well, I’ve got a lot riding on your shooting ability. I’ve got to know that you have my back. Maybe I need to take Jill here along with me instead.”
“Not a chance,” Alex said. The response was fast. Automatic. Jill bristled at the proprietary note in his voice. Before she could respond, he continued.
“There’s a big difference between shooting a paper target and a perp. I haven’t let you get shot so far, and believe me, that’s no small feat given the massive target you present.”
Jackson’s wide lips parted in a good-natured smile. “Maybe a bigger target is what you need if you plan on hitting anything.”
“Don’t push your luck, or I might just shoot you myself.” Jackson laughed, and Alex cocked an eyebrow. “I’ll catch you later. I’ve got to take Dirty Harriett here to the airport.”
Alex clapped a hand on Jackson’s shoulder. Jill could still hear his deep, rumbling laugh as she handed in her gear at the desk.
She didn’t miss the appreciative glance she got from the clerk behind the counter as she signed out. If Alex noticed, he showed no outward sign. Was he used to the male attention she attracted? Did he still look at her that way? Did he still look at her at all? Over the course of their five-year marriage, they had slid into a routine. Or was it a rut, she wondered.
“What time’s your flight?” he asked.
“Noon.”
“Why so early?”
Jill followed Alex out of the range and down the long, narrow hallway toward the locker room. Her heart pounded in double time as she considered the question, but she kept her voice light.
“I’ve got a project review first thing in the morning and I still have to work on my slides.”
Alex glanced at her. He still looked like a college student, his short hair cut away from his angular face and a light growth of stubble on his cheeks. Subtle lines carved their way into the corners of his eyes and lent him an air of experience, falling just short of the war-weary look common to most detectives.
The expression in his golden brown eyes gave her pause. Was he growing suspicious of her frequent trips to the Bay Area? The recent expansion of her role at work provided a plausible excuse for all the time spent away from him. But still.
“I guess we should head straight home then. You don’t have a lot of time to get ready.”
Unaware that she had been holding her breath, she exhaled in a soft sigh. Her long strides kept pace with his as they walked side by
side, hands not touching. Jill changed the subject and followed him into the locker room.
“Did you talk to Captain Lewis about the presentation he asked you to do for the conference?”