I have no idea where this came from. It just poured out on the page.
Hank waited impatiently in the drizzling rain for the taxi to arrive; he carefully gripped his battered suitcase, protective of its secrets. He turned up his collar and hunkered down into his trench coat.
The sound of a knocking engine and slapping windshield wipers were easy to detect on the empty street. Two blocks down, the mechanical rhythms rounded the corner. Hank squinted in the direction of the approaching headlights and was comforted by the dimly lit ‘taxi’ marker that was visible between the rain wrapped beams of light. The wheel well emitted a high-pitched squeal as the green and beige sedan came to a stop in front of him. He climbed into the back seat of the mobile haven from the storm, and placed the shabby suitcase on the seat beside him. When he looked up into the rearview mirror, the driver was starring back at him.
“Where to?”
The question was as automatic as the reply.
“1880 Waltham Avenue.”
The driver was puzzled. Waltham Avenue ran north toward Langston Proper but anything past the 1500 block would put him into the belly of hell.
“1880?” he asked, hoping that he suddenly had a hearing problem.
“1880” Hank confirmed.
The driver looked more closely at the reflection of his passenger. The man seemed almost eaten alive by a trench coat and wide brimmed Fedora. If things got ugly the passenger’s small frame would lend no assistance to his survival but the entire scenario unsettled the equally petite driver.
“You’ll have to pay in advance.” The driver prodded, hoping his passenger would reconsider. He jokingly crossed his fingers, starred out into the rain, and tried desperately to wish the rear seat into ejecting its contents out onto the street.
A small wad of folded bills dropped onto the front seat. A quick count insured the driver he would be well compensated for his services, if he survived. With a sigh of surrender He shoved the money into his pocket and pulled away from the curb.
Emerald Coach Cab Company knew the driver as Jake Handley. Jake knew that only a fool would pay four hundred dollars for a fifty-dollar fare. He checked his rear view mirror again. Light from passing headlights rode a bead of rain down the passenger’s coat sleeve as it dropped onto the tattered suitcase that was now being clutched to his chest. The small man, for whatever reason, was exhibiting signs of determination, desperation, or both.
As he made the left onto Waltham Avenue, Jake noticed an ominous flickering orange haze just ahead. The flickering mist was engulfing the Sullivan Hotel. As he drove past the hotel, the orange flickering cloud dissipated and all of the structure’s lights seemed to come on at once. As he rubbernecked over his left shoulder he could see patrons in the lobby but they were apparently unaware of whatever weirdness was going on. A quick glance into the rear view mirror revealed that the passenger had witnessed nothing.
Jake mechanically reached for the styrene coffee cup that he held between his legs. He maneuvered the cup instinctively, up and around, as if navigating the hot liquid through an obstacle course that had the power to revoke his hack license. As he held the cup to his open mouth he found himself thinking about the strange things that had just happened. Maybe this was the reasoning behind ODOT regulations. Maybe he didn’t need anymore coffee. He rolled down the window as he drove and then tossed out the hot liquid, styrene and all.
Ten minuets later, the intersection of Waltham and Main lay just ahead at the traffic signal. Across Main lay the entrance to the bowels of the city.
“Stop here”, commanded the passenger.
The squeal from the wheel well could be heard from within the taxi. Jake was relieved he had been able to comply with the man’s request just south of the light.
Hank laid the suitcase on the seat beside him and released the rusty latches as the driver set the parking brake. Jake threw his right arm over the back of the front seat and pulled himself around so that he could see what the small man was up to. Hank was pulling a newspaper out of the open suitcase when he felt the driver’s stare. He handed the paper to the increasingly curious hack.
“SULLIVAN FIRE CLAIMS CASUALTIES” Jake read out loud.
Even though Jake had never met his passenger, all of a sudden, the man’s face was familiar. The man who had been eaten by a trench coat was Hank Sullivan.
Jake seemed to be watching something like a faint television newscast. Mr. Sullivan was offering condolences to the fire victims’ families. The apologizer was so sincerely stricken with grief that Jake clutched his own heart in an effort to ease the pain that was caused by the site of it.
Jake’s eyes filled with questions. “Two days ago I met a man who was carrying this suitcase,” Hank began. “He told me his story just as I am about to tell you mine,” he continued.
Jake listened intently to the story of the electrical fire that claimed twenty-five lives just six months ago. The details of how the suitcase came into play, lent some support to Jake’s theory that he wasn’t really losing his mind. He had, however, been used as a pawn in the plan. As the suitcase containing the headline had been driven past the hotel, the entire structure and twenty-five lost lives had been restored.
Hank took the newspaper from Jake’s hand and tucked it inside his coat. Jake suddenly realized that his mouth was hanging open. He closed his mouth and swallowed hard.
“I was given an opportunity to right a wrong,” said Hank as he stepped out of the cab. Not bothering to reach for the luggage, he closed the door and headed north, on foot, toward the traffic light. Jake knew that Mr. Sullivan intended to cross Main Street alone. The suitcase he supposed, as he looked over his shoulder into the back seat, was being left for him to use at his own discretion.
Jake was the only man alive who knew the injustice, which held his personal opportunity to right a wrong. He wondered if he could ever have the courage and compassion that he witnessed in Mr. Sullivan. The Fedora and trench coat crossed at the light and disappeared into the dark rainy night.
As “1880 Waltham Avenue” rang through his ears, Jake recognized the address and knew that Mr. Sullivan was sacrificing his own life as part of the deal. He was headed straight through the bowels of hell toward the city incinerator!
When high school principal Jerry Egge is brutally murdered, Deputy sheriff Dave Jenkins begins an eerie investigation. Just about everyone in Soldier, Minnesota, is a suspect.
"Murder isn't usually this funny."
Amazon re
Book three in series. Excitement and tension begin on the first day of filming a Restoration drama on location at the historic Jacobean mansion, Ham House in Surrey.
