Coldwater Revenge

by James A Ross

  James A. Ross

  Coldwater Revenge

  A Coldwater Mystery

  First published by Level Best Books 2021

  Copyright © 2021 by James A. Ross

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  James A. Ross asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  This is an unrevised and unpublished Advanced Reader Copy Proof. This copy is not for distribution to the public. This is an advance reader’s edition created from uncorrected proofs and is not for sale. Typos and errors will be corrected for the final released edition of the book. | www.LevelBestBooks.us | Review/Publicity Contact: Ryan Mahan mahanrw@gmail.com or (707)272-7926

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-953789-55-6

  Cover art by Rebecacovers & Ryan Mahan

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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  For my sons, Guy and Drew, may they never fall for the same person.

  “And a man’s foes shall be those of his own household.”

  Matthew 10:26

  Praise for Coldwater Revenge

  “From the first page, I was drawn into Jim Ross’ captivating novel, Coldwater Revenge. More than a crime novel over the death of a local boy who ran with the wrong crowd, this story has layers in the depths of its characters. The warmth between Tom Morgan and his brother as they work to investigate the murder adds a touching humanity to the story, and the care with which Tom nurtures his neurodiverse nephew brings the dynamics of this family alive on the page. It doesn’t stop there. Ross imbues the many characters in his setting with rich backstory that comes out in the present. In the hands of a lesser writer, the intensity of the different sub-plots might overwhelm the main story, but Ross deftly brings all the story threads together in a gripping read. This is a book not to miss!” — Vanitha Sankaran, author of Watermark: A Novel of the Middle Ages

  “Author James A. Ross grabs you and keeps you spellbound as this fast-paced thriller plunges into the icy depths of a dangerous lake on the Canadian border, and two brothers reconnect to solve a crisis which grows from a murder investigation into potential international terrorism.” — Lenore Mitchel, author of DYING TO RIDE

  “Coldwater Revenge by Jim Ross is a testament to how great mystery stories should be written; with grit and style, and with unnerving characters that blossom into palpable genre-representations that foil each other marvelously with each new page. Detailed and vividly conceived, there’s little doubt the story takes its readers to a place of intrigue where it’s near impossible to gage an outcome, and instead we must let it come, sometimes suddenly, while praying that there will continue to be more left to read. To call it a page-turner would be an understatement.” — Josh Michael, Associate Fiction Editor, Mud Season Review

  CHAPTER 1

  Fall 2002

  Billy Pearce was still alive, though neither he nor his killer knew it. The plunge into the icy darkness of Coldwater Lake brought Billy back to consciousness, but not awareness. His body filled the narrow sleeping bag. Cement blocks at his feet ensured that it found bottom and stayed there. Where his face filled the opening at the top of the bag, strobes of sparkling moonlight made prisms of the bubbles that could well be his last mortal breath. But Billy didn’t think about that. His mind was somewhere else. This had happened to him before, a long time ago, and his mind went back there now.

  When Billy was thirteen, he’d decided to break into a golf course clubhouse on the far side of Wilson Cove to steal liquor that he’d heard had been left in the basement storeroom over the winter. Temperatures had been unseasonably warm for most of the month. But Billy had decided to chance the walk across the late winter ice, rather than risk being spotted along the lake road at an hour when boys his age were presumed to be in school.

  The frozen ice crackled and popped beneath his feet like a bowl of breakfast cereal. Billy imagined the party he would have with the liquor he was going to steal. And while he busied himself with a short mental list of who he could invite that would not rat him out, the snap, crackle pop went WHOOSH! and he plunged like a clown through a trap door into the freezing lake. In an instant, his heavy winter jacket sponged its weight in brain-numbing ice water, boots filled like pails and the whole soggy weight of it dragged him rapidly toward bottom.

  But Billy didn’t panic. His egghead family may have thought him deficient because of his constant troubles in school and his indifference to books, but Billy was brighter than they knew, and a childhood of disapproval had made him stoic and unflappable.

  As his body drifted toward bottom, Billy methodically removed everything that was weighing him down: jacket, boots, shirt and trousers—everything but underwear. That done, he looked for the halo of light that would mark the spot where his fall had punched a temporary hole in the rotting ice. When he found it, and before his breath could give out or his mind succumb to the numbing cold, Billy had kicked and clawed his slim, nearly naked body through the hole and onto the ice.

  Now, on a starless October night a dozen years later, his mind went back to that time where his body knew what to do and his brain was confident that everything would be all right if he just didn’t panic. Inside the sleeping bag, his hands methodically removed a coat that was not really there, kicked off a pair of heavy boots that were not there either and lastly slipped-off the trousers that were. Then, as his face turned to find the wall of white where memory told him a patch of brighter white would guide him to a hole he must find and climb through if he were to survive, he abruptly ceased to remember, or to think at all. Because this time, Billy Pearce was dead.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Sir, you’ll have to turn that off until we land.”

  “Sorry,” said Tom, dropping the Blackberry into his jacket pocket, “force of habit.” From habit as well, he shut his eyes while the turbo prop made its descent to the Coldwater County Airport, keeping them shut until wheel touched tarmac and held straight. Fifteen years of first class business travel hadn’t diluted the formative memories of white knuckle landings on this pocked strip of macadam. Laid crossways to the wind that swept east from Coldwater Lake and surrounded by acres of succulent field corn, the seasonal challenges of fog and ice were minor compared to the obstacle course of white tail deer that guarded the sweet grass along the cracked tarmac as though it were a field of Bambi heroin.

  He grabbed the vibrating Blackberry as soon as the plane came to a stop. “Tom Morgan.”

  “Stu Bailey,” said the voice on the other end. “Do you know your phone’s been off for the last hour?”

  “It’s called vacation, Stu. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m sorry, Tom, but I need to follow-up on your response to the conflict of interest questionnaire you filled out before you left.”

  What could be ambiguous about a one word answer? “Too verbose?” he asked.

  The voice on the other end forced a chuckle. “That depends. Are you sure you haven’t handled anything for Eurocon in the last ten years?”

  “Yep.”

  “Or any of its subs or affiliates?”

  Tom cradled the phone, opened the overhead compartment and retrieved a laptop and garment bag while the plane taxied
toward the single room terminal. “A company the size of Eurocon can have hundreds of those, Stu. You know that, and that not all of them use the parent company name. If you’ve got a list, email it to me. But like I said, I’m on vacation. And I’m about to get off a plane and start it.”

  “Okay, Tom. But call me when you get the list. It’s important.”

  Tom held the phone away from his ear and made a face, slinging the laptop strap over his shoulder and dragging the wheeled suitcase up the aisle.

  “One more thing, Tom. Have you done any political fund-raising?”

  “What?”

  “Campaign fund-raising, that sort of thing.”

  “I know what fundraising is. What’s that got to do with a conflicts check?”

  The phone remained silent.

  “Stu?”

  “It’s not a conflicts check, Tom. The Compliance Committee needs to know if you’ve done any political fund-raising.”

  “What? Hold on.” He lifted the suitcase and descended the half dozen steps to the tarmac. Fifty yards away, a Paul Bunyan-sized figure leaned against the door of a police car parked and idling in the No Parking Zone in front of the terminal.

  “Of course I have,” he growled into the phone, dragging his suitcase toward the car. “And charitable fund raising and Greenpeace fundraising and practically every other kind. The firm knows that. They encourage it. Now what’s this about, Stu? Because you’re starting to put a damper on my hard-earned vacation.”

  “Sorry, Tom. I guess that’s enough for now. I’ll get back to you if we need more.”

  “Take your time.”

  * * *

  The outsized man beneath the Smokey the Bear hat detached himself from the Crown Victoria, revealing the words “Coldwater County Sheriff” painted in red across the door panels. “That better be a girl you’re talking to, or I’m supposed to take that Crackberry away from you.”

  Tom slipped the phone into his pocket and hugged his younger brother, trying not to wince at the bone-crushing return. “Good to see you, too.”

  “Don’t stay away so long, you won’t miss me so much.”

  Tom felt his heels return to earth.

  “Throw that stuff in the back. Bonnie and the girls are at school. Luke’s at daycare. Mom’s home and everyone’s excited to see you.”

  “How is our favorite girl?”

  “A pistol, as usual. Broken leg hasn’t slowed her down much. The cast comes off next week. Some geezer from the Senior Center’s been calling every day. But don’t mention that unless you want a crack to the shins with a metal walker.”

  Tom had been about to start a long overdue, lie-on-a-beach–brushing-sand-off-your-stomach-and-deciding-what-to-do-next-with-your-life vacation when his brother called with the news that their mother had fallen and broken her leg. Changing plans was a simple matter of adjusting flights, discarding his Italian phrase book and postponing any life-altering decisions. It was simple enough that it should have come with a warning label. He threw his bags into the back of the patrol car and climbed into the passenger seat while his brother took a call on the hands-free mounted on the dashboard. “When did you get rid of the two way?” he asked when Joe had finished the call.

  “Ten days ago, when Paulie Grogan and all three deputies jumped ship to join some new BCI Terrorist Task Force. The mayor says that the sheriff’s department doesn’t need a dispatcher for just one cop, so the town let Helen go, too. But they gave me this flip phone thing so I can take citizen calls directly.”

  Tom felt his jaw hang open. “You’re out three cops and a dispatcher? It’s down to just you?”

  “It’s temporary. Just until the town council can meet to authorize replacements. In the meantime, I patch over to DuBois at night and pick up again in the morning.”

  Tom gave a weak whistle. “Is Bonnie okay with you out there herding the bad boys all by yourself?”

  Joe stared straight ahead. “She’s pissed, which you’ll no doubt hear about later. In the meantime, that was a call from a concerned citizen who thinks I should rescue some idiots who got their boat stuck on the rocks in Wilson Cove before they freeze or drown or something.”

  “Flip on the bubble lights, brother. It’ll be like making rounds with Mad Dog again.”

  Joe turned the cruiser onto the highway and headed downhill toward the lake. “Could be kids; but there was a boat out there last night running without lights. It went dark when I started after it in the patrol boat. Nearly peeled off the bottom on a rock. If I find out it’s the same punks, I’ll let them swim home.”

  Tom gestured at the fresh cuts on the back of his brother’s muscled forearms and across the top of his dirty blond buzz cut. “You fall out and land on the propeller?”

  Joe smirked. “Different bunch of assholes. Dopers planting on Watermelon Hill. I go up there sometimes to have a look and pull up plants. But they plant thorn bushes around them now, to keep the deer away. Spray, too. The stuff itches like hell.”

  “You get a kick out of Dad’s old job, don’t you?”

  “More than you get out of yours.”

  Bull’s eye. Flagging interest in a legal practice that had brought Tom white collar wealth in his early forties might come as a surprise to his partners. But it had never been possible to keep a secret in the Morgan house. Too many natural detectives. Joe’s comment was a gentle probe. Their mother would bring out the backhoe and start digging before he had time to put down his suitcase.

  Even so, it felt good to be home. He missed the hills above town that clung now to the last of their fall plumage, and the salmon-filled lake that gave its name to the community and shared its shoreline with French Quebec. The only thing he didn’t miss were the “Call Of The Wild” winters which would come at any time now, and the lack of meaningful work for anyone with more than a high school education.

  “Be funny if it were the Dooley twins out there,” said Tom, dragging out old names and shared memories. “Remember when Dad caught them red handed with a haul of salmon, took their boat and left them stranded on Sunken Island up to their nuts in forty-five degree water?”

  Joe’s carrot-sized fingers squeezed the steering wheel. “Not everyone appreciated the old man’s idea of instant justice, Tommy. That’s part of what got him killed, don’t you think?”

  The cruiser accelerated.

  Let’s not go there.

  The patrol car turned onto the lake road, past gabled houses with wraparound porches and vistas of blue water that stuttered by like subliminal advertising for turn of the century splendor. The elms that had lined the road when Tom and Joe were boys had long since succumbed to disease, their crippled skeletons lending the lakeshore road an air of permanent Halloween.

  Where the road turned east to follow the knuckle of Wilson Cove, Joe pulled the car to the gravel shoulder. A hundred yards offshore, visible through patchy but rapidly lifting fog, a battered twenty-foot Boston Whaler churned circles in the cove’s muddy shallows. Joe took a pair of binoculars and a battery-operated bullhorn from the trunk, slapped on his Smokey the Bear hat, tossed the binoculars to Tom and swaggered toward the shoreline.

  Through the binoculars, Tom watched a short, wiry figure leap from the stern of the Whaler into knee-deep water. A graying ponytail swung from the back of his sun-faded tractor cap. Oblivious to Joe’s approach, the man waded beside a taut down-rigger cable, pulled a long-handled filleting knife from a sheath on his hip and started to saw away on whatever was there.

  Joe’s amplified voice boomed across the water. “You guys need help?”

  Tom swung the glasses toward the man who’d remained in the boat. He was pony-tailed too, slightly built, and as oblivious as his companion to the arrival of local law enforcement. Tom steadied the glasses against the dashboard and moved them to the man in the water and then back to the man in the boat. The Dooley Twins?

  Some things never change. The poacher brothers padding the winter larder with fat fillets weeks after the season
ended. Rods springing from downriggers, trolling reels screaming like toy tops, Kevin Dooley whooping like a kid, and brother Mickey angrily shushing him. Though as soon as they realized it was a snag, not a fish, the bickering must have started. Other than fishing and hunting out of season, that’s what the Dooley twins were known for: world-class bickering.

  Turning the glasses to the back of the boat, Tom watched the ponytailed man lift the lid on the fish box and dump its contents into the lake on the side of the boat opposite the shore. His partner in the water continued to do whatever he was doing with the knife. Then, as a gentle wind began to ripple the cove, pushing the fog away from the shoreline, a line of floating fish carcasses spread across the water in a slow, incriminating drift from boat to shore.

  Joe bellowed through the bullhorn, “Gotcha, Mickey!”

  The man in the water turned toward the amplified boast. As he did, a large cloth-covered something floated to the surface and began to drift behind the fish carcasses. Tom focused the binoculars to get a closer view of the thing bobbing in the water. Disbelieving seconds ticked by before he recognized what and then who it was.

  “What” was a lean, pock marked face peering out of a water-logged sleeping bag. “Who” was Billy Pearce.

  CHAPTER 3

  When the ambulance left with Billy’s body, Tom and Joe walked the shoreline looking for what might have floated out of the bag Billy had been stuffed into. Bickering voices wafted from the back of the patrol car. Morgan has no right to take our boat!

  “Billy must have really pissed somebody off this time,” said Joe.

  “What do you mean?” asked Tom. “Billy was harmless. His sister even let him tag along on our dates. How many big sisters do that?”