The Cyclops Conspiracy

THE
CYCLOPS
CONSPIRACY

DAVID PERRY

The Cyclops Conspiracy
Published by Pettigrew Enterprises, LLC
P.O. Box 1790
Grafton, Virginia 23692

For more information about our books, please write us or e-mail us at pettigrew [email protected].

Printed and bound in the United States. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the copyright holder, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in review.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011907703

ISBN-13: 978-0-9836375-0-9
ISBN-10: 0-9836375-0-4

Copyright © 2011 by Pettigrew Enterprises, LLC

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Alex,
the brightest star in my universe.
Set your sights on the heavens
and never stop going after your dreams.

“Courage does not always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice
at the end of the day saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow.’”

—Mary Anne Radmacher—

“Happy are those who dream dreams and are ready to pay the price
to make them come true.”

—Leo Joseph Suenens—

I had no idea where this literary journey would take me. I only knew that, someday, it would be complete. After four challenging, exciting, and occasionally frustrating years working before dawn and well into the wee hours, it’s done.

No author successfully undertakes such a journey alone. Along the way I’ve dragged many generous souls into my adventure. Without their time and assistance, you would not be holding this work.

First, I am deeply indebted to several law enforcement officers for their expertise: from the York County Sheriff’s Office, Captain James Richardson; from the Newport News Police Department, Lou Thurston, Public Information Officer; Sergeant Rick Gaddis, Homicide Unit; Master Police Detective Linda Gaddis, Economic Crimes Unit; Master Police Detective Lorain Crain, Economic Crimes Unit and United States Secret Service Task Force; and from the Virginia State Police, Pamela Jewell, Public Relations Manager of the Insurance Fraud Program.

Thanks to all of you for your time and insight, as well as your dedicated service to our state and communities. At various points in the novel, I have taken literary license with some law enforcement procedures. Please forgive me.

I am also grateful for the assistance of Dr. Cheryl Lawson, Emergency Medical Services Medical Director and Clinical Operations
Section Chief at Riverside Regional Medical Center, and Dr. Wendy Gunther at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner of Virginia. Their medical and forensic insights were invaluable.

To my editor, Frances Elliott, thanks for your careful reading of the manuscript, superb insights and suggestions.

I am indebted to Elaine Lattanzi and Shelley Sapyta for ensuring that this project saw the light of day.

To Carol Cipoletti and Ede Ashworth at Burke High School in Morgantown, West Virginia: Carol, thanks for being a good friend and an inspiration. Ede, thank you for the Latin translations. I’d like to also thank Rich “Sorry About Your Bad Luck” Stratton for allowing me to borrow a great catchphrase.

To my brother, Scott: words cannot express the love and gratitude I feel knowing you’re only a speed dial away. Thanks for always having my back.

To Anne Wood: thanks for plowing through the manuscript. Your love and support keep me grounded and have taught me what generosity and true selflessness are. I hope I’ve been able to give them back to you in equal measure. Thanks for your patience and your understanding of my complex life, a life which is enormously richer with you in it.

Jason waited for the door to his tortured past to swing open.

Having just rung the bell, he fidgeted on the stoop. His secret had haunted him for thirteen years. Separated from it now by only a thickness of wood and glass, he couldn’t believe he was actually standing here, once again, after all these years.

The door opened, and a hunched old woman peered at him. “I’m Jason—Jason Rodgers,” he said, the words catching in his throat.

“Chrissie warned me you might be coming by,” croaked the elderly woman in a heavy Italian accent, pulling her shawl tighter around her frail shoulders. “Please come in.” Her voice was filled with kindness, but her eyes penetrated Jason Rodgers as if she were already familiar with his history.

Over the years, the deep pain had faded, leaving only hollow regret. His secret had been confined to a dull ache in the recesses of his analytical mind. Every once in a while, though, a sight or a sound would trigger an agonizing flashback. He’d remember the pained look on Chrissie’s face. Or the hangdog visage of his mentor, Thomas, Chrissie’s father.

Those ghostly memories never really went away, and now they stirred as Jason stepped through the door into the Newport News, Virginia, colonial-style house. It had been Thomas Pettigrew’s home for thirty-plus years and where he’d picked Chrissie up for their first date. His lungs seized, unable to push out air.

Though not responsible, Thomas had been at center stage in the episode that had nearly ended Jason’s pharmacy career before it began and—at the same time—doomed his love affair with Chrissie. The man’s tutelage had shaped Jason’s pharmacy career. In the thirteen years since he’d left, Jason felt as if he’d failed both of them. The least he could do was attend the funeral of the man who’d given him his start.

He’d seen Chrissie graveside. It was an awkward reunion, one that Jason had both highly anticipated and deeply dreaded. Thomas was, after all, her father. She had every right to be pissed off at Jason. Her first reaction was a nervous smile and a stiff hug. They exchanged a few words, and then she made an offer that shocked him: to join her at her father’s house for the funeral reception. His internal struggle was a monumental one, but in the end, Jason knew it was an invitation he would not decline. Nonetheless, he was daunted by the thought of actually setting foot in this house again; of actually talking for the first time in years to the only woman he’d ever really loved.

Long ago, his actions had blindsided her, in an excruciatingly painful way. Of course, he hadn’t been around to see the pain he’d caused. But Jason knew how deeply Chrissie had loved him. He could deduce from the agony he himself had suffered that Chrissie’s pain was magnified by unanswered questions. For many reasons, and for many years, he’d hoped and prayed for the opportunity to make her understand his actions.

The old woman said “warned.”
Despite the ominous implications of the word, a question nagged him. Had Chrissie been thinking about him after all these years?

“Did you find the house all right?” asked the old woman, her voice chalky and exhausted by life.

Jason nodded. “Yes, thank you,” he replied, unable to force more than a whisper past the lump in his throat.
I’ve been here before!
he thought.

She offered him a hand spider-webbed with blue veins. “I’ve been Thomas’s neighbor for five years. I’ve been helping Chrissie with the funeral. I’m experienced with this sort of thing—my Giuseppe passed last year.”

Jason frowned, unable to muster any sympathy for the woman. “I’m sorry,” he said mechanically, looking over her shoulder to the small gathering of mourners.

“You and Chrissie were lovers many years ago, weren’t you?”

Jason’s gut clenched, and she saw his reaction. “I see the pain in her eyes when she speaks of you. These eyes,” she said, tapping her temple and then her chest, “and this heart have seen a lot.” She leaned closer. “What happened?”

Jason stepped back, too stunned to answer her question.

“I know it’s forward of me,” she said, touching his arm as if keeping him from running away. “But I’m an old lady who doesn’t have much time left. I speak my mind. No time for bullshit! And I see it in Chrissie’s eyes—she truly loved you. Whatever you did wrong, you might still have a chance with her.”

Jason felt his eyebrows lift at the audacity of the woman’s words. What stung more was their accuracy. It had been more than a decade since Jason had dumped Christine. And only one other person on earth had known why. Thomas, Chrissie’s father, had sworn Jason to secrecy. But Thomas was gone now. That left Jason holding the secret like a rucksack filled with the weight of a thousand universes.

Was he released from his obligation now that Thomas was gone? Jason had asked himself that question a hundred times in the last few days.

The old woman waved a hand. “But there are more pressing matters today, no?”

“Yes,” said Jason, relieved the conversation was veering in another direction.

“Thomas’s death was so tragic and so sudden,” she said, placing a hand to her cheek. “He was
un uomo buono
.”

“What?”

“A good man.” She leaned in once more. “I’ll tell Chrissie you’re here. There’s food and drink in the kitchen if you’re hungry.” She winked a paper-thin eyelid. “Good luck! Tread lightly!”

Jason shook his head slowly as he watched her shuffle through a klatch of mourners. He waited nervously in the foyer. Guests cast him sideways glances. He avoided them and studied the once-familiar surroundings.

The décor hadn’t changed. This house had been his second home during their courtship. The familiar layout was thick with painful memories. The sparkle in Chrissie’s eye as she descended the stairs on their first date. Bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches at the kitchen table. Late-night movies on the television, ignored in the darkened living room as hands probed hungry flesh beneath blankets.

Outside, the house had not seen a fresh coat of paint in years, though Jason noticed a small satellite dish sloppily attached to a downstairs window. Apparently, Thomas had made a weak attempt to enter the new century.

The six-foot portrait of Thomas and his wife, Eleanor, still hung on the same wall in the foyer. No one who entered could miss it. Thomas stood regally behind his wife as she sat in an ornate chair, smiling stiffly. The gilded frame’s tiny crevices were caked with dust. Surrounding the piece, the wallpaper’s glow had faded to a dull, matte finish.

Jason overheard a woman whispering about the tragic circumstances of Pettigrew’s death. The word “alcohol” reached his ear as if Satan himself had hissed it. Jason glared at the woman, ready to walk over to her and set her straight. But she was too engrossed in herself to notice him. His outrage rose another few degrees. There was no way he’d driven drunk! Not Thomas Pettigrew!

It was then that he spied Chrissie in the living room speaking with two older women. Probably acquaintances of Thomas. She was
not facing him, but he studied her face from an angle. To say Christine was attractive was a gross understatement. She was drop-dead, you’re-in-heaven-before-hitting-the-floor gorgeous. Her chestnut hair cascaded to her shoulders, curling gently behind petite ears. Sexy and understated, the style framed a perfect face and reminded you that a brain that crunched numbers like a supercomputer resided beneath. Her conservative dress, a tan blazer with matching skirt, low brown pumps, and an ivory blouse open at the neck, could never hide the firm curves of ample breasts and sleek hips. Then there were the eyes. The sweet caramel gaze would, Jason knew, still clench his soul the moment it was directed his way.

Her cherubic appearance and rambunctious, passionate nature had, most certainly, been tempered by the travails of life. Travails to which, he was certain, he had in no small part contributed. What had happened in her life? What had he given up? The sight of her told him one thing: she was not a frail, broken woman crushed by the weight of a failed love. Hers was a tested, demure confidence set in an unflappable foundation of femininity.