The Watchman

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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Thank you

THE WATCHMAN

 

 

V. B. Tenery

 

 

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

 

THE WATCHMAN

 

COPYRIGHT 2014 by VIRGINIA TENERY

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Pelican Ventures, LLC except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

 

eBook editions are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. eBooks may not be re-sold, copied or given away to other people. If you would like to share an eBook edition, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.

 

Contact Information: [email protected]

 

Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated are taken from the King James translation, public domain.

 

Cover Art by
Nicola Martinez

 

Harbourlight Books, a division of Pelican Ventures, LLC

www.pelicanbookgroup.com
PO Box 1738 *Aztec, NM * 87410

 

Harbourlight Books sail and mast logo is a trademark of Pelican Ventures, LLC

 

Publishing History

First Harbourlight Edition, 2014

Electronic Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-354-4

Paperback Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-373-5

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

 

To my daughter Holly. The love of my life.

And to my critique partners in Scribes 201 and

Scribes 222 in appreciation for your encouragement

and for keeping me straight.

 

 

 

 

1

 

“I have set watchmen on thy walls, O Jerusalem, which shall never hold their peace, day nor night. . .” Isaiah 62

 

Hebron, Wyoming

What if you knew you could learn the deepest, darkest secrets of anyone you touched, but it would cost you emotionally? What if from your earliest childhood you could disappear in thirty-minute intervals and while invisible, you could move through solid objects with impunity? What if these anomalies came as natural as breathing—clothing and anything in pockets or hand disappeared—an unknown field that surrounded you erasing everything inside?

What would you do with such powers?

I'd settled that question long ago, but this afternoon, as I focused on the scene outside my car window, it occurred to me perhaps I needed to rethink my mission. I'd covered domestic abuse cases during my five years with the Hebron Police Department, and I'd put away a lot of bad people. Different scenario here. I was no longer a cop.

Ahead, a small boy stepped from a school bus into the upscale Crown Heights neighborhood. Dead leaves and powered snow swirled around his high-end sneakers as he shuffled along the sidewalk.

My foot hovered over the gas pedal. The image disturbed me, and I almost drove away. His small shoulders slumped forward, and I was hooked. I had to know.

He stopped and turned around as if he might go back to the bus stop. He reversed and faced me again.

Confused? Lost?

Cute kid, maybe six years old. The designer logo on his backpack bounced with each step. Blond locks pressed against his brow under a blue baseball cap, reminding me of another little boy—minus the designer gear.

Decision made, I swung the SUV to the curb, snatched the cell phone from its holder, and texted my friend.

Got 2 bow out of dinner talk 2 u later.

I left the car and stepped to the sidewalk. With a glance both ways, I moved into the boy's path. Slow and easy. Not too close, not too fast. I didn't want to frighten him.

With my friendliest smile, I took a step closer. “Hey, son, can you tell me where to find Oak Street?”

He gazed up at me and shook his head. Eyes dull, as if he'd lived life and found it wanting.

I patted his shoulder. “Thanks, anyway.”

He winced and jerked away as if I'd slapped him. I'd suspected abuse, but his pain caught me by surprise. In an instant his life opened up, film clips at the speed of light. Visuals of physical pain, overwhelming fear, helplessness, and a silent scream for help…
please, help me.
Emotions too heavy for a child to carry streamed through my consciousness. With proof of abuse came certainty. The violence at home was escalating.

Something frightening rose within me―rage against the defenselessness of children and those who caused them pain. Abuse cases drew and repelled me at the same time, reviving memories I'd long ago buried.

I inhaled a resolute breath. When had I ever walked away from a troubled child? I couldn't save the world—just the small corner God gave me. A common man, given uncommon gifts—a watchman on the wall.

I scanned the area for traffic and pedestrians. When I turned back, the boy had quickened his pace through the gated entrance to his home.

Invisible, I wheeled and followed him.

Inside the house, a woman's voice called from the kitchen. “Cody, is that you?”

“Yes, Mom.” The boy took the stairs two at a time to his room with me close behind.

“Get ready for dinner. Hurry, your father will be home any minute.”

At the top of the second-floor landing, a spacious lounge area came into view.

Kid-friendly furniture, bookshelves, stereo components, and a wide-screen plasma television filled an area with scattered group seating. Four doors opened onto the landing. The boy's bedroom was the first one on the left at the top of the stairs.

Cody tossed his jacket and backpack on the bedpost, and darted into the bathroom. Hands shaking, he turned on the tap, splashed water on his face, and grabbed a towel from the rack. After a swipe at his cheeks, he bounded to the stairs. Halfway down, he stopped and then hurried back to the bathroom. He wiped down the sink with the damp towel and dropped it into the clothes hamper. With a quick glance, he scanned the room before heading back downstairs.

At the ground floor, the stairway emptied into the living room. The accoutrements of wealth spread out before me. More showroom than a home—decorative and spotless. The room held no smiling family photos, books, or personal touches, no warmth. Even the Christmas tree with its silver and glass ornaments seemed cold and sterile. Not my taste, but what did a former Marine know about interior design?

On the right, a formal dining room opened into a kitchen exuding homey smells of spices and yeast.

Cody took a seat in the bay window, drew up his legs, and wrapped thin arms around his knees. His gaze followed his mother as she put finishing touches on the evening meal.

The woman examined each piece of china with care and then replaced the dish on the placemat. She picked up the silverware and polished each piece with a towel. Her frantic actions told a story. A lump formed in my throat. I knew the drill by heart. Perfection was an elusive goal she could never attain.

From the back entrance, a car hummed into the garage.

With quick, deft movements, she placed Beef Wellington, browned to perfection, on the table. She must have spent half the day preparing this meal.

A door slammed. “Rachel,” a male voice called.

“We're in the kitchen, Harry.” Her mouth formed a thin, strained smile.

Harry's linebacker form filled the doorway. Tough guy. He could beat up a woman and child.

He took the chair at the head of the table. Cody and his mother joined him, taking seats across from each other.

Rachel rose and filled Harry's wine glass as he cut the beef into precise, small bites, seemingly oblivious to the tremor in her hand.

The chimes of the analog wall clock sent a reminder my time limit had run out. I could leave or let the family find an intruder observing their evening meal.

I left with reservations.

Cody should be OK for a short time. His father would look for a reason to justify his cruelty, a reason to convince Cody the abuse was his own fault. Tactics used by abusive parents everywhere.

Back in my car, I drove to the front gate and forced my attention to the job. Cody needed a champion, and like it or not, I'd been tagged his designated knight.

Half an hour later, again invisible, I re-entered the kitchen. The meal had ended, and Harry sipped coffee from an engraved demitasse cup.

I braced for the explosion, and it didn't take long.

Cody removed the napkin from his lap, folded it, and laid it on the placemat. When he released the napkin, his hand hit the milk glass. The crystal tumbler spilled onto the tablecloth, bounced to the floor, and shattered, sending glass shards across the tile.

Harry's glare flashed at Cody. “You clumsy little fool. Look what you've done.”

Rachel jumped to her feet, darted to the kitchen, and grabbed a handful of paper towels. “Don't yell at him. It was an accident. You make him nervous.”

A vein popped out on Harry's left temple. “Proper table manners are important to his future, regardless of his
feelings
. Obviously, a lesson he'll never learn from his mother.” Harry turned to Cody. “Go to your room. I'll be there in a minute.”

Cody pushed back from the table and stumbled upstairs. I followed his dejected form back to his room.

Rachel's pleas echoed up the stairwell. “Leave him alone, Harry. He's just a little boy. Accidents happen.”

A sharp slap sounded, followed by dead silence.

Doors slammed downstairs as though Harry searched for something. Heavy, deliberate steps ascended upward. Cody's eyes widened as his father drew nearer.

The knob turned, and Harry stood in the doorway, a leather belt clasped in his hand. He strode to Cody's window and closed the blinds.

Rachel slid into the room. She skirted around Harry and stood between Cody and his father.

Cody screamed. “No, Mom. He'll hurt you.” He tried to get around her, but she held him back.

“Get out of the way, Rachel.” Harry bit out each word.

Rachel's chin went up, and her shoulders squared. “I'm not moving an inch. Not now—not ever.”

My hands shook so badly I had to squeeze them into fists to keep from decking Harry. Breaking his jaw would ease the chaos in my gut and let him feel the pain he'd dealt Rachel and Cody. Inwardly, I railed against my limitations, but common sense prevailed. I couldn't just materialize in Cody's room without serious repercussions.

I had to leave again, but this wasn't the end. I was coming back for Cody and Rachel.

Outside the gate, once more flesh and blood, I punched 9-1-1 on my cell. “I want to report a disturbance at 1220 Cedar Hills Drive. I hear a child screaming.” I gave my name and waited.

The authorities wouldn't take long, but that didn't stop me from pacing. Crown Heights' four-man police department received few emergency calls. Vanity cops more than a law enforcement unit, but this wasn't the time to be picky.

In less than five minutes a patrol car passed. Brake lights came on, and the vehicle backed up and eased to the curb in front of the estate. Two officers emerged and marched to where I stood. They could have been brothers, both thin and athletic with neat dark hair and brown eyes.

“Officer Ryan,” he said and thrust his thumb toward his colleague. “That's Officer Duncan. Did you report the disturbance?”

“That would be me. I'm Noah Adams.”

“Did you witness an altercation of any kind?”

“No, only the child's screams. Sounded frantic. Perhaps someone should check it out.”

Duncan strode to the gate and spoke into the intercom. “Police. Open the gate, please.”

Ryan pulled a notebook from his jacket. He cocked an eyebrow. “Got some ID? You look familiar. You a cop?”

“Used to be. Five years on the HPD. Private investigator, now.”

“You packing?”

“Goes with the job.” I handed him my license and concealed weapon permit.

He examined them carefully and handed them back. “You don't live in the neighborhood?”