Fool's Run
Page 1
FOOL’S RUN
A Si Reardon Novel
By Sidney Williams
A Gordian Knot Production
Gordian Knot is an imprint of Crossroad Press
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Smashwords edition published at Smashwords by Crossroad Press
Crossroad Press digital edition 2020
Copyright © 2020 Sidney Williams
ISBN: ePub Digital Edition - 978-1-952979-80-4
Cover images from Shutterstock
LICENSE NOTES
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Meet the Author
Sidney Williams writes thrillers and dark fiction and has developed a body of work that includes traditionally published novels from Kensington Books and new works from Crossroad Press and short stories for a variety of magazines and anthologies. Horror great Graham Masterton once said: “Sidney Williams has the ability to conjure the genuine reek of hell.”
Sidney teaches creative writing with a focus on horror, mystery and suspense plus short fiction and contemporary fiction.
Sidney’s stories have appeared in publications including Cemetery Dance, Hot Blood: Deadly After Dark, Under the Fang, Quoth the Raven, Cat Ladies of the Apocalypse and Love Among the Thorns.
A native of Louisiana, he now resides in Virginia with his wife, Christine Rutherford.
He loves to hear from people online!
Visit Sidney at https://SidisAlive.com
Facebook: https://facebook.com/SidneyWilliamsBooks
Twitter: @Sidney_Williams
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Life’s a fool’s run on a crooked road. You have to find the best route you can.
— Richard Jasso
Prison Inmate
Table of Contents
The Girls
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Part 2
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Part 3
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Part 4
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
The Girls
“Was most disappointing.”
Adam Holst flexed his fingers around his cell, his gaze falling on his wife, Grace. She sat at the end of a sofa, attention focused on a tablet computer propped against her curled legs. She looked comfortable and content in lounging pajamas. She didn’t realize who he was talking to.
“Look, Val,” Holst said. “I really want to apologize. Sometimes with politicians, you have things all wrapped up, then they get a better offer.”
Alexeeva gave only a mild grunt.
“They think something will get them more votes, they’re gonna chase that,” Holst went on, improvising. “We’ll get the next one.”
“The contract, I was uh, counting it. Counting on it. That’s it.”
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. There’ll be other deals. We’ll do business.”
Grace looked his way now. Holst’s tone and the mention of Val’s name, Valentine Alexeeva actually, had not escaped notice.
A call from Val was serious. It indicated he wasn’t taking bad news well. The deal he’d been hoping for had involved a vehicle maintenance contract with the city of New Orleans. Adam had worked with a couple of members of the city-parish council to help assure things went Alexeeva’s way, but some details had soured. Holst had worried it wouldn’t sit well in the Ukrainian’s brain.
Something like a tire iron or wrench dropping on concrete sounded behind Alexeeva now. He must be in the flagship garage where he tended to spend much of his time. He’d be sitting in a swivel chair at a battered metal desk amid the oil and fumes wearing a Brookes Brother’s suit fit for a corporate board room. He was working to become a polished American businessman, so he’d dropped the leather jackets and gold chains a good while back.
“You know, I don’t like when my partners drop ball. Is important, someone keeps word.”
“I warned you nothing’s a hundred percent guaranteed.”
Holst had risen, and he paced now, waving a gesture of reassurance at Grace as she pulled blonde tresses away from her face. With the mention of Alexeeva’s name, everyone’s temperature rose. He’d known going in working with Alexeeva put him in questionable territory, but he’d thought the deal was almost a sure thing, and making deals was his business.
“I hear you on that, too, Val. I thought the council members could be trusted.”
“Lesson must be learned.”
“Look, I know you want to expand into government contracts. We’ll get there. We’ll find…”
“You’ve checked the children’s rooms lately?”
Holst froze, mid-step with more apologies still forming in his throat. His jaw wouldn’t move, and his eyes stared into his wife’s. He couldn’t hide his terror even as he saw the exploding fear in her expression.
“What?”
“The children. You see them?”
“Grace, check on the girls, now.”
Her expression mingled quizzical with horror.
“Now.”
She sprang from the sofa. Bare feet fluttered across the carpet to the staircase, pajamas fluttering wing-like around her lithe form as she ascended.
“Look, Val,” Holst said into the phone
, “it’s one fucking contract.”
“But, to me, an important one.”
Grace disappeared into the upstairs hallway as Alexeeva made him wait in silence. Holst’s heart slammed his ribcage as the seconds ticked. Then Grace fluttered back to the second-floor railing, hair askew, eyes flaring with terror as she looked down at him.
“They’re not in their rooms.”
Alexeeva had heard. He chuckled. “No, no, I am scared they are not.”
Damn him and his broken English. Why was he afraid they weren’t? Holst didn’t like the answer or the games. This was business, not something his family should be involved in. He was just a guy who connected people, greased wheels, turned a buck to assure that they had a nice house, he had great suits, and Grace had expensive lounging pajamas. He sailed through life on the self-image that he was a polished, smooth businessman. How had that turned into a mess with this guy?
He forced down anger. He had to reason.
“Look, look, look, Val. This isn’t necessary. There are other deals. What do we need to do?”
He touched his forehead and pulled his hand back over his hair, dragging back locks that were wet and oily with perspiration.
“What does he want?” Grace screamed from upstairs.
“It is difficult to perform the act, how is it? Retroactively?”
“Right, we can’t go back, but we can look forward. We’re businessmen. There has to be something we can work out.”
“What are names?” Alexeeva asked.
“What do you…? Dagney is the youngest. She’s seven. Dahlia is thirteen.”
They had blond hair like Grace’s, and they were slender like her, Dahlia gangly at the moment, Dagney still cute with baby fat on her cheeks and dimples, destined to be the beauty. They must be sitting across from Alexeeva now.
How could it be that a half hour ago Holst and Grace had stood over each and touched lips to foreheads before leaving their rooms with only nightlights?
How had they not heard something?
Alexeeva kept a filthy old sofa across from his desk and liked making people in suits sit on it for meetings. They must be terrified, sitting there, clutching each other but Holst couldn’t hear any whimpers over the phone. Alexeeva would have them flanked by henchmen. Flanking the girls, wearing suits less elegant than Alexeeva’s, he probably had Taras Seleznyov and Nestor Zhirov on hand. Taras, the brainy one, probably looked over nervously at the man-mountain that was Nestor. Taras might feel a little more empathy. Nestor would follow any order without question.
Holst had to talk, to reason.
“Val, there’s another possible deal coming up. It involves an ambulance fleet. You know those are expensive. They like to re-do the guts of those, save the body and chassis.”
“Confusion, Mr. Holst, has set in. This is not the negotiation. This is the retribution. I wanted to give you the opportunity for your, um….” He covered the phone for a moment, consulting with someone. “Your goodbyes.”
“Jesus, Val. Come on. City contracts are up for renewal all the time. We’ll get it the next time. Big picture. I’m going to Baton Rouge next week.”
“Concerns me why?”
“I’m going to be talking to some…state House members…You know, the Legislature. State contracts.”
The son of a bitch was sitting there checking his nails. He kept them perfectly manicured these days. He sat with a manicurist buffing and filing where another assistant had his dick in her mouth because he was lusting after respectability. With the nails.
Holst flushed that thought. It didn’t need to be with him while he was talking about the girls. What would Alexeeva have in mind for them?
Holst couldn’t threaten as well as Liam Neeson could.
“House? Not as good as Senate, right?”
“There are going to be some opportunities…”
“Daddy.”
Dagney’s voice.
It sounded far away and hollow. Alexeeva had lifted the phone toward the girls.
“Sweetheart? We’ll get this worked out.”
“Youngest cries. Older one, very quiet.”
“Put them on, let me talk to them. These opportunities, Val. They’re north. You don’t have much north. It’s new territory for you. Very good business.”
“Long drive, sorry.”
“We have to be able to work out something. Please, don’t send them to anywhere, you know. Don’t let them….”
“You worry they will go to work in sex world?” He just chuckled.
Grace had floated down the stairs in a near daze. She dropped beside Holst on the sofa, gripping his shoulder as she leaned toward the phone.
“Val, please. Whatever you’re planning. Let me talk to them.”
“I hold up phone again. Might be wise, not promise, just speak.”
Holst tilted the phone toward Grace.
“Dahlia, Dagney. It’s Mommy. I’m sorry, babies, we’re going to try….”
“Enough,” Alexeeva said. “No promise, I said.”
Holst pressed the phone back to his ear. His palm had covered it in sweat, but he gripped it tight.
“Come on, Val. Val, talk to me. I can find other opportunities. I have lots of connections.”
Nothing.
“Val?”
“Is important to live up to commitments. Mr. Holst, Mrs. Holst, very sorry. Enjoyed dinner the last time I was there.”
The sound that followed was unmistakable. A gunshot. From Nestor’s weapon—some big, black sidearm of the Russian manufacture he preferred? He called it the Strike One.
Jesus.
“Val, please….”
A weapon roared again.
Then Holst sat listening to silence. Alexeeva had disconnected the call, and Grace sat beside him.
Weeping.
Part 1
Three Years Later
Reardon
Chapter 1
I wouldn’t have agreed to meet with the woman at all under normal circumstances, but my circumstances hadn’t been normal in quite a while. When she called on my new, disposable cell, I was wandering the French Quarter and, amid all of the tourists and ongoing sense of festivities, wondering where my ex-wife had taken our daughter. I’d just bought a bottle and was thinking I might, for expediency, employ someone to help drink it. I scanned the crowd for the right candidate.
I’d just been turned down for a job. Guy thought I’d been served a raw deal, but still the name Silas Reardon had been in too many headlines. The fact my conviction had been overturned was a technicality he didn’t really want to debate. Didn’t change the media coverage. No crooks nor perceived crooks on the payroll. He was an old friend named Gilbert Lombardi, and he hadn’t been my first stop. Nobody wanted to dance with me.
It was on that thought that the phone jibbered, the cell I’d purchased to have a call back number was seeming like a waste of my cash, even though it had felt like an expression of freedom in the moment. I hadn’t been allowed to own one while I sweated out my time inside David Wade Correctional’s cinder block walls.
I answered, hoping someone had had a change of heart, decided I was at least worthy of following an errant husband around and fished my resume out of the trash.
“Mr. Reardon?”
A crisp, professional and efficient voice. A little deep and a little sultry. Almost as interesting as the brunette I’d noticed leaning against a corner near Pirate’s Alley.
“Yeah?”
“My name is Rose Cantor,” came the voice from the phone. “I’ve followed your case in the news.”
She sounded nice, but the brunette across the way was slender with graceful, almost feline movements, about 20 with a cultivated college girl look. Maybe she took some courses at UNO. Subtle touches for a girlfriend experience.
“Fame’s not all it looks like in the tabloids,” I said.
“I thought we might talk.”
So, Rose Cantor had the number. She knew somebody. Somebody I�
�d talked to recently. She couldn’t be just a random groupie who’d fixated on a cop in the news, but I couldn’t rule her out as a representative of one special interest group or another. I’d had letters from lots of them when I’d been doing time, marking off calendar days in the protective unit in North Louisiana.
“What’s this about?” I asked.
“A possibility.”
I’d turned down various fringe group offers during the appeal. The offers hadn’t come with any big payouts. My new attorney, Clinton Laroque, hadn’t turned his meter off, but he had advised against aligning myself with anything high profile or even anything sketchy. Since the possibility of re-trial rested in the prosecutor’s hands, that recommendation still held.
I said: “What’s the offer?”
“This would just be a conversation.”
My potential employee walked away on a fifty-something tourist’s arm, getting lost in the crowd.
I said: “Why not?”
Rose exceeded expectations by parsecs.
As I walked into the restaurant bar, she slid off a stool, but I almost passed, thinking she wasn’t even a possibility. Then she extended her hand.
“I’m Rose.”
I had to force myself not to hold on too long as I took her in. Five-six, tight black suit, open enough at the throat to be interesting. Long brown hair, grey-green eyes, full lips and sculpted cheekbones. The hair was swept mostly to her right side with curls resting on her shoulder. She’d passed forty, but she didn’t give the years much opportunity to show. Toned arms and trim legs were obvious beneath the fabric. She worked out though not to an excess that made her look all muscle and bone. I took my hand back, and looked into her professional smile as a bit of flowery perfume caught my nostrils.
“What brings me to this little corner of heaven?” I asked.
“I have some clients who’d like a word with you.”
“You’re an attorney?”
“The shingle formally reads special counsel.”
“That’s suitably ambiguous.”