Kindle Edition
Defending The Pen
Category:
Action/Thriller
Copyright: Sept 5, 2013
Price: $5.99 (eBook)
A man of pure evil, a dedicated detective, and a talented artist meet in a fight that defines good and evil, love and obsession, betrayal and forgiveness.
After transferring to Seattle to repair his professional reputation, Detective Steven Quaid is unexpectedly demoted to the cold case squad. While helping a fellow officer he stumbles upon an unusual case–and an even more extraordinary foe. Unraveling the mystery gives him the case he is sure will right his stalled career, and brings him face to face with Luke Williams, aka Lucifer. An insidious man who delivers Quaid the ultimate choice: save his fiancée from an assassin’s bullet or stop the sacrifice of a young girl. Suddenly the effort to salvage his reputation pales in comparison to the loss of a future with the girl of his dreams.
Excerpt
From a lair of downed tree limbs and forest debris, a man watches a young woman. He chronicles her every move. From the moment of her arrival and through the three hours she has worked to record the scenery on her canvas, he barely moves a muscle. He is content—comfortable. His camouflage is so exact that deer graze just inches away.
Tomorrow you’ll be mine. Your blood will assuredly be purer than the sweetest honey on earth. His stomach rumbles, and saliva flows in anticipation of her taste. His unbridled joy almost costs him his concealment when a celebratory growl escapes his throat and the doe takes notice. He stills himself and waits.
She looks directly at him. Seconds tick by in uneasy expectation. She sees me. He swallows hard almost dropping his camera. She smiles. His body flushes with excitement.
His smile broadens, and then evaporates. No. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and relaxes his muscles. The Scriptures have foretold of our first meeting. Patience my queen, my love.
His hands drip with sweat, his heart pounds. He shuts the camera off and carefully lowers it to the ground. She shows no fear, and he sees every move as flirtation. Using the sleeves of his shirt, he dries his hands, mops his forehead, and turns the camera back on. He calms the urge to go to her. He stays silent, motionless, but vigilant.
* ******** *
A cool breeze rustles the leaves, and a haunting melody flows among the treetops. Sarah busy and intent on finishing her work steps back when a bee disturbs her concentration. The bumblebee darts around the flowers just painted, looking for nectar in the colors. She watches with amusement but too quickly, the small creature flies off to find the real thing. The distraction causes her to realize how long she has worked without a break. She puts her palette down, stretches her stiff muscles, and surveys the scenery. Something in the trees catches her attention. A chill trickles down her spine, but concern becomes a smile when she spots the doe and its fawn grazing contentedly.
Her attention once more on her work she stared in disbelief. The scene painted did not match her surroundings. Her intent had been to capture the sunlight filtering through the trees, the waterfall, and the multicolored wildflowers that covered the banks—the serenity of nature on a picturesque morning in the mountains of Idaho.
Instead the soft light had somehow become fog seeping in from a foreboding and dark landscape. The multicolored wildflowers were all blood red, the blue sky a dark gray, and to her shock, she had painted someone in the background. Sinister orbs glowed from a dark shadow hidden in the trees. Apprehension seized her senses. She scanned the area around her. Alarmed, she searched the woods for any sign of Steven or for the phantom, that haunted her painting. Steven had promised to join her with a picnic lunch. That hour has passed. Worried, she gathers her materials and hurriedly makes her way back to the cabin.
Since Steven joined her in May, painting had become a joy again, and her source of relaxation. Excluding today she had captured the colors of an Idaho sunset and sunrise and the blossoming greenery. The mountains, the high desert, the Snake River, and its creatures filled her canvases. For the first few weeks, her and Steven's reunion fit the description of heavenly, a honeymoon despite the lack of a ceremony.
This week things were different, his phone rang incessantly, and hushed discussions filled his days. She tried to get him to share his concerns, but he insisted the calls were work-related and he wanted to keep business separate from their life. She understood, yet found his response disquieting. They were on vacation, an almost honeymoon, work should not be interfering at all.
She suggested a justice of the peace, but he insisted on giving her the wedding of her dreams. He wanted to see her walk down the aisle in front of family and friends. She assumed he was reluctant because she had eloped the first time. She loved that he wanted to give her something special, but every time she mentioned flying home to get the process started, he insisted they wait. He wanted the press to forget about recent history—a history that included the murders of her husband, six innocent civilians, and two decorated police officers by a murderer who had stalked and tortured her. Sarah, horribly injured, had her life forever changed. Her privacy gone, the woman who loved her solitude had become fodder for the news rags. Gossip, formerly a pet peeve, had become a curse.
By the time she reached the cabin, the fear that had overwhelmed her dissipated. To heal from her recent ordeal her good friend John Thomas had given her the keys to his cabin in the Idaho Mountains. Just above the Snake River, the chalet had two levels with the main living area on the second floor. The scenic views of the river and the mountains were a feast for the senses and a balm for the psyche. In a storage room, off the garage she stored her canvas. With everything put away, she went upstairs to find Steven. From the living room, she saw him sitting at a table on the patio, talking to Helen Gabble, a co-worker from Anchorage. Surprised to see Helen she wondered what emergency required her to make a trip so far south. Dressed in jeans and a cotton blouse instead of her usual pantsuit, Helen appeared agitated rather than casual. She knew Helen as a no-nonsense sort of woman, and imagined that on the field of battle she took no prisoners.
Sarah could tell by their body language that Steven and Helen were discussing business. Steven had his arms folded across his chest, listening intently. Helen stood at the end of the table, both hands flat on the surface. She finished her sentence and threw her hands up in apparent defeat. Whatever she said, he did not agree. Instead of disturbing them, Sarah went to the kitchen to prepare lunch.
She opened the refrigerator just as their words drifted in through the open kitchen window. She stopped dead in her tracks.
"If only she’d done the right thing four years ago maybe none of this would’ve happened," Steven said.
His words were about her. An utterance she never thought she would hear him repeat. She had shared an intimacy with him. A confidence he had assured her would always be their secret—he had just shared with Helen.
Helen responded. "I don’t understand, Steven. Why isn’t any of that in the final report? It’s not like you to withhold evidence."
"It wasn’t necessary to close the case," he insisted. "I promised Sarah. He's a murderer; dragging her name through the mud would've done her harm." He sighed. "I couldn’t have that torture become public knowledge. The papers would’ve had a field day."
"They are, Steven. They are. There’s a rumor about a sexual relationship. Don’t you think the truth would be better?"
"No! No matter what’s written they’ll make his attack her fault," Steven declared.
"You’re the one laying blame. You said, ‘if only she’d done the right thing four years ago.’ Maybe lives would have been saved." Helen drew an unfair conclusion.
"No! They’re two different things. Reporting that crime now can only make things worse. We can’t know what would’ve been, and I’ll not have conjecture bandied about in the press. You keep this under your hat, you hear me!"
His tone sounded threatening. Shocked, Sarah listened with her heart in her throat; everything she had been trying to forget tumbled forward. Rooted to the spot, she wished she were still at the waterfall.
"Don’t worry. I won’t say a word. It’d serve no purpose. But, Steven, the department's receiving hate mail," Helen said.
"What?" His feet hit the floor. He stood, then paced. "Hate mail?"
"Yes, abhorrent. We get the odd letter from family members of people we’ve arrested, but this is different. It’s from all over the country regarding you and Sarah. One of the worst came from someone calling himself the Son of Lucifer. He wrote something along the lines of . . . ."
Steven interrupted her. "‘You don’t deserve the love of an angel. Your incompetence almost got her killed. Do us all a favor and go back to the woods where you belong.’ You got a copy, Helen. I received the original. I had no idea he'd sent copies to the office. Can you believe he wrote the damn thing in blood?"
Sarah strained to hear. She heard the quote and then only the words "wrote . . . in blood."
Her concern matched Helen’s reaction.
"Blood? When did you receive it?"
"Early May. Then just days later, I received another one. A threat. ‘Walk away, Detective. Leave my angel to find peace. You’ve hurt her enough. This is my only warning. Leave her or you will pay the ultimate price.’ Same writing, same bloody border."
"And since then?" Helen asked.
"The third one came in the mail forwarded here this week, even odder. ‘Don’t worry, Detective, soon I’ll be the one taking care of her. No harm will ever come to my angel.’"
This time Sarah heard the words my angel. Is this about me? After a few moments, she suppressed her emotions and began the lunch preparations, while still keeping an ear on the conversation. She could only pick up a few words here and there; running water and fumbling through the cupboards drowned out the words but not the implication—their vacation just ended. She tried to finish the lunch preparations and close out the rest of the discussion, but the conversation continued, and despite her desire, she listened.
"Shit. Where do these idiots come from?" Helen wondered aloud.
"Crazy land. I'm sure it's harmless." Steven said.
"Do you really think threats written in blood are meaningless?" Helen sounded incredulous.
"With all the idiocy out there today, who’s to say some jerk thinks he's being funny? I mean really, the 'Son of Lucifer'?" Steven stretched. He looked at his watch and mumbled, "Shit." He walked to the edge of the patio and looked towards the woods.
Helen followed. "Maybe you’re right. The world is so unbalanced."
"Hate mail is the last thing I expected." Steven said.
Sarah saw his gaze on the woods and the path he knew she would take, but she still hesitated to let him know she had arrived.
"Why didn’t you let me know sooner? How’s the department taking it?"
"I wasn’t aware until last week. The Captain's kept the lid on it. He knew I planned to come home for the wedding, and asked me to stop by and assess the situation. See if you’re ready. At first he thought your absence was a good thing; now he’s not so sure."
"What about the team?"
"They think you’ve abandoned them. That you’re hiding out while they take the flack." Helen spoke softly. "I know that’s not the deal, but Steven this looks bad. You know how gossip works."
Sarah realized Steven had mixed priorities and once again, because of her.
"Yes, I know, but I can’t return. Not now, she’s still recuperating. I can’t take her back to that mess." Steven said.
"She’s got to toughen up sometime. She can’t hide forever, and you can’t protect her from the whole world," Helen insisted.
Determined but saddened, Sarah picked up the tray and joined them on the patio. She avoided Steven's gaze and welcomed Helen to their home away from home.
"I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so relaxed," She said in greeting. She put the tray down and shook her hand.
"Time off does that. I wanted to say hello to you and Steven before I went back to Anchorage," Helen said.
Sarah poured the iced tea while Steven set out the plates. She felt his gaze, but concentrated on their guest.
"What’s happening in Anchorage? I’ve been homesick." Sarah said.
They enjoyed the meal and the idle conversation with business purposely avoided. Helen left several hours later with a cooler full of fresh trout. Steven saw her off and returned to find Sarah packing. He wrapped his arms around her from behind.
"This isn’t necessary. We don’t have to go back, not right away." He turned her toward him and hugged her tightly.
She clung to him. He sat down on the edge of the bed with her. "It’s going to be all right. I promise."
"You don't have to protect me. You shouldn't have to protect me. I thought we decided to do this together?" Her voice held no strength despite her effort to appear strong.
"I just wanted you to have some peace. If anyone deserves it, you do."
"Thank you." She kissed him tenderly on the cheek. "But Helen's right. You need to get back to Anchorage, to work. I have to start living in the real world. Although, I've been so happy here, and with you it's even easier to . . . forget, but I’m avoiding reality again."
Despite her resolve, he sensed her reluctance. "But are you ready?"
"Yes, and no. I’m sorry. It’s just feels ominous . . . like we've unexpectedly lost something very special," she said. "But it's time, yes, I'm ready."
Worried but glad she understood he said, "I hate leaving our private paradise too, but I need to get back. It's imperative that I support my team. You need to see someone so you can start to deal with everything that happened. I’m not qualified." His experience with victims of violence was to show compassion and recommend counseling. Advice, the only thing he felt capable of, even for the girl he loved. "How about a bubble bath," he suggested.
She finally smiled. "Your solution for everything."
"I know my limitations." He hugged her tightly.
"Then we go home tomorrow. I’ll see a counselor, and you’ll get back to work. It's time. Even if Helen hadn't shown up, we’re both ready. You're tired of twiddling your thumbs, and we’ve both had our fill of fish. Even Helen noticed when I served roast beef, then gave her a cooler full of trout to take back with her."
Steven chuckled. "I know, but she has a big family. No fish will go to waste." Steven stood. "There's one other thing."
"That sounds solemn?" Her smile faded and she stood too.
"We'll have to go back to Alaska separately. We can drive to Washington together and I’ll fly back right away, but you should take a few more days, maybe do some shopping. If we go back together the press will pounce for sure."
She thought about what he said for a few seconds, and then told him, "You’re right. I think you should call Helen and fly back with her tomorrow. I’ll drive to Seattle, check in with the corporation and the foundation, maybe even take the time to look for a condo downtown. I need a new base of operations. Maybe I'll call Leeann and see if she'll join me. A few days on the beach in Hawaii will completely clear the cobwebs. I'll decide on the drive to Seattle."
"I don't want you to drive back alone . . . ."
She gazed at him through her eyelashes. "Please, it's barely a day's drive and I'd like the time to adjust. I promise I won’t speak to strangers."
"No, I . . . ." He started to protest.
She put her hands on her hips, ready for a fight.
"Okay, you win." He yielded and kissed her warmly. "Why are you so against security?"
"Because security draws attention. I hate attention."
He sighed and hugged her tightly. How do you explain to someone like Sarah that just being her drew attention?
After a few moments, she broke the embrace. "Then we leave early tomorrow. Go on, make your phone calls. I'm going to finish packing, and then I'm going to take that bubble bath. Join me when you're finished. We still have tonight." She batted her eyelashes, gave him a coy smile, and he hurried from the room.
Steven called Helen and the airport to arrange for a ticket, but first he called John to coordinate protection for Sarah. He refused to let her travel alone, not with threats coming almost daily.
That night he lay awake for a long time watching her sleep. He delicately moved a few stray hairs from her cheek. He loved her more than life. He wanted nothing more than to marry her and start a family, but his last case, the Valentine murders, had taken a toll on his reputation and Sarah’s health. They needed this break to get back on their feet, but he really wanted to get back to work.
His job as lead Detective for the Anchorage police department something he enjoyed, had received too much press lately. The Valentine murder case wrapped up in Washington State, and he had given credit for its conclusion to his friend, Washington Detective Terry O’Connor. Soon after, the press in Anchorage began to question his abilities. They blamed him because Sarah was injured, accused of murder, even arrested. Even though two months had passed—the stories were getting worse. He wondered what would happen when they went home. About to nod off, she moaned and moved as though uncomfortable in her skin. Deep sighs, hurried breaths, and then she spoke. He strained to hear.
"Forgive me, Master. I’m ready. I promise. I’m ready." Her voice a calm monotone.
He put his hand on her shoulder to wake her, but she fought him. He knew her anxiety came from what she saw in her dream. She screamed, striving at first to find her voice—unexpectedly sitting up and shrieking so loudly he thought his eardrums would burst. Her eyes were open wide in terror. He pulled her close and held her until she calmed down.
"It’s just a dream." He spoke to her softly, caressing her gently.
She went limp, silent, and looked straight through him.
"Sarah. Angel?"
"I'm . . . all right." Slowly she became aware of her surroundings. "A nightmare . . . just a bad dream." She assured him but appeared confused.
"Do you remember?"
"No. It’s gone." She rubbed her temples.
"You spoke. Before the screams, you said. ‘Forgive me, Master. I’m ready. I promise. I’m ready.’ Does that ring a bell?"
"I said all that?"
He nodded.
She shivered. "That’s new." She left his arms.
Usually she cuddled close after a bad dream. Tonight she practically jumped out of bed. Pale and fidgety, she avoided looking at him. Shaking, she covered her nakedness with a nightgown.
He moved toward her, his arms open.
She backed away.
"Angel?" Her rejection hurt. He wanted to stop her but thought better of it. Something about this dream frightened her. While she said she could not remember it, he wondered about her honesty.
"I need . . . air. Excuse me." She hurried to the living room.
He followed, unqualified, powerless. He kept his distance and let her deal.
She went immediately to the windows and stared at the night sky. He could see her physically begin to relax. He lit the fire. The mountain nights were chilly, even in June. He poured them both a brandy, joined her at the window, and wrapped an arm around her waist. "Better?"
She nodded and sipped her drink. "Thank you."
"Come on, sit with me." He maneuvered her to the couch.
"A bad dream," she insisted but snuggled up next to him.
"This is different. You can’t remember it, and yet you’re still shaking." He pulled her close.
"This nightmare . . . I can’t remember the dream, but the dread . . . stayed with me," she admitted.
"Because we decided to go home?"
"No, I'm sure that's not it. I'm ready to go back. I think my painting . . . ." She stared at the fire. "I had a . . . ." She took a deep breath. "Something odd happened today. Maybe the dream is a reflection of that?" She tried to limit the effect of her words, but his concern was immediate.
"What happened? Why didn't you say something sooner?" John had assured him of the security otherwise he never would have left her alone.
"You had a guest, I didn’t want to give her the wrong impression. And to be honest being spooked while alone in the woods seemed childish . . . until now."
"Spooked?"
"At the waterfall, I had this feeling . . . creepy, as though someone was there, just watching. My painting wasn't what I intended. The result had a haunted quality, as though I'd just painted a nightmare. The whole thing troubled me." She shivered at the memory.
"Did you see anyone, hear anyone?"
"No. I’m sure my imagination got the better of me, but just now, when I woke up. I was back there in that moment. I’m sorry, it's silly, when we get home; I promise I'll see someone. It’s the best I can do." Defeat filled her voice. "I know you don’t have time for this. I wish things were different. I wish I were different," she admitted.
"I don’t. I love you, nightmares, and all." He kissed her, and she responded but pulled away from him.
"Your turn." She locked eyes with him.
Stunned by their intensity, he knew he had one choice, the truth.
"We’ve dealt with me," she persisted. "Now it’s your turn, spill it." She sipped her brandy but never took her gaze from his.
He moved from the couch, refreshed his drink. Sarah pulled her legs up under her chin and watched him closely. At the fireplace, he pretended interest in the crackling flames. The tables were turned, and while uncomfortable, her intuition, served her well. Another reason he loved her.
"What makes you think there’s a problem?" he asked.
"Well, for one, you have to put up with me. Your attentions been diverted, there’s something going on. Your actions have been erratic, and you're not sleeping well either, plus I overheard part of your conversation with Helen. Hate mail? I couldn’t hear everything, just something about notes written in blood?"
He took a deep breath and then gave her a benign summary. "They were warnings to me, to take better care of you. It’s harmless really."
"Written in blood?" Her brow furrowed.
He knew he needed to lie better. "It looked like blood. This clown's just trying to be clever. It’s nothing to worry about."
"Then why are you?"
He knew guilt. She knew he coated his responses. "I’m not." He could not look at her. He put another log on the fire. "Okay, you’re right. I’m concerned. But given everything that’s happened, aren’t I allowed to be a little overprotective?"
"A little, yes, but you’re preoccupied with something. You’re making frequent phone calls. You haven't really been here all week. There's more to it."
He sat down on the opposite end of the couch and gulped his brandy. "I wasn’t prepared for the press turning against me. At least not such a vicious response and hearing there's hate mail, it's just outlandish."
"And?" she probed.
"You'd make a great interrogator." His voice filled with pride. "But you're right. My angst goes all the way back to my first case eleven years ago, a fluke. I didn’t solve anything. I stumbled upon it. But the press pounced, made me out as some kind of hero. That’s when they nicknamed me Hawk, and only because of my heritage. A way to give native Alaskans pride, a publicity stunt cooked up by someone in the public relations department. The wrong response then, and now, it’s like karma has made its rounds."
She moved closer and took his hands in hers. "No. You did 'solve' that crime, you were at the right place at the right time, and you recognized that. You caught a man impossible to catch, because you were conscientious. You knew the facts of a case you weren't even involved with. Your karma is all positive. You’re courageous, dedicated, and you’ve earned the name Hawk, over and over again since that first case. You’ve proven your worth. This last one won’t destroy years of success. No one, not even the FBI, caught on to the culprit. Please don't let that horrible case sabotage your confidence."
"Not even a little prejudiced?" He tried to be humble, but her assessment made him proud. "Thank you for that. I know you’re partially right. But I’m no hero. I’m just a man, and I make mistakes. I made plenty of them."
"We both made mistakes, but evil deserves the blame not you, not me," she reminded him.
He pulled her closer. "I see my lectures have not fallen on deaf ears." He chuckled. "Now, remind me, why we've been hiding out in the mountains of Idaho?"
"I thought we were practicing for the honeymoon?" she whispered, and snuggled deeper into his powerful arms.
They kissed and became lost in the magic of love.
* ******** *
At ten, the next morning a sound reverberated through the woods that had all the creatures in a one-mile radius running for their lives. Evil exploded from the forest and went straight to the cabin. Lucifer could tell at first glance she had escaped him. He had waited by the waterfall and when she did not show at nine, he began to worry but maintained his cool. When an hour passed, he knew he had blown his opportunity.
He bellowed his rage and kicked in the door to the garage, his anger escalating with each step. He meant to take her for his own, his disappointment profound, and his anger so acute his skin radiated heat in waves. Once inside he checked the cabin for anything that would tell him where she had gone. In a back room, he discovered her art supplies, and covered with white muslin, her last painting. The one she had finished yesterday. He stood back to admire it.
"Yes!" His ego swelled. His love for her grew. "I knew we were connected, my angel, I bow to your supreme talent, and I accept your gift." His anger soothed, he wrapped the picture carefully. "Stay vigilant, my love, for we will be together soon."
In the living room he hit redial on the phone.
"Boise Airport, how can I help you?" a feminine voice answered.
He hung up. "Fly home, angel. Our meeting is delayed but only delayed." He set the cabin on fire, celebrated while the chalet burned to the ground, and then left with his prize—his message of devotion from Sarah, his true love.
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