Unmasking the Shadow Man

by Debbie Herbert

  “Everything okay?” Kimber asked anxiously.

  “Yes. Just remembering Ralph,” she admitted.

  Kimber shrugged dramatically. “What a creep.”

  “No. More a tragic figure,” she gently admonished. “But he’s better off where he lives now.”

  Ralph had been diagnosed with developmental and mental health disabilities and was eligible to reside in a halfway house, where he seemed to flourish.

  “And, in the end, he was a help to you,” Kimber admitted. “And to Liam’s family.”

  The mystery of Liam’s uncle Teddy had been solved. Ralph and he had been camp mates years ago at the tracks. Teddy had died of natural causes—probably pneumonia, from Ralph’s description of the symptoms—and was buried in Baysville’s pauper cemetery with an unmarked nameplate. Liam’s mother had since erected a tombstone for her long-lost brother.

  Loud footfalls ascended the stairs.

  “Mommy! Someone’s at the door for Miss Harper.”

  Surprised, Harper glanced out the window to see Liam striding up the front porch. “Wonder what he’s doing here in the middle of the day?” she asked.

  Kimber shrugged but looked a bit too smug. As if she was in on some private joke. “He’s the new deputy police chief—reckon he can come and go as he pleases.” Before Harper could question her further, Courtney, Anise and Layla appeared, chattering away in that delightful style of young girls.

  Harper marched downstairs with Kimber and her girls. Her hand trailed along the familiar mahogany railing.

  On the eighth step from the bottom, where Presley supposedly fell and died, she remembered her old mantra—blessings, sis. But it didn’t fill her with sadness anymore. Like her, the old house was moving on. It felt right that it was inhabited by a family again. Hopefully, a family that would fill it with years of happy memories.

  Goodbye, house, she added to her silent mantra.

  At the doorway, Liam was bent on one knee, laughing at something Courtney said. Her heart flooded with joy. He’d be a wonderful father one day. Not that they’d even discussed the possibility of raising children. Yet. But they’d lived at his place since Kimber moved here. Their relationship was strong. Steady.

  “What brings you here?” she asked curiously.

  “Thought we could go out for a nice ride before dinner.”

  Funny, long drives weren’t something they’d ever done before. He and Kimber exchanged a significant look. Fine, she’d find out soon enough what they were up to. So, she played along as she said goodbye to Kimber and her girls.

  “Bryce know you’re playing hooky?” she asked after they were underway.

  “He insisted on it. Claims he can’t have his top deputy working longer hours than him. Makes him look bad.”

  Liam smiled as he fiddled with the radio. He and Bryce had developed a close friendship after all the scandal and illegal activities they’d worked together to shut down.

  And it was a gorgeous April morning, after all. Local shops had opened along the downtown strip. When they passed the large stone church at the edge of town, Harper pointed at the marquee.

  “Church social this weekend to welcome the new minister,” she read aloud. “That’s good news.”

  Liam nodded his head in agreement, and they were silent a moment, thinking of Allen’s victims.

  Allen Spencer had been found guilty on three counts of sexual abuse and was in prison.

  “How’s Gunner liking the new job there at the church?” she asked.

  “Loves it. Takes pride in keeping the place spotless. The congregation claims it’s never been so well kept. They shower him with attention and casseroles.”

  The bustle of town faded, and she relaxed, enjoying the view, not paying the slightest attention to where they were going. Until Kimber’s old farmhouse came into view. To her astonishment, Liam turned off the county road and headed up their driveway. She was even more surprised when he pulled out a set of house keys from his pocket.

  “Let’s go inside and take a look.”

  Even with all the furniture gone, the house’s charm remained. Harper strode into the kitchen and looked around. “I know Kimber and Richard are happy to be rid of the place, but I couldn’t bear to sell it if it were mine.”

  Liam’s arm wrapped around her waist from behind. “What do you say we buy it, then?”

  “What?” She laughed and turned around to face him. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Perfectly serious. I know how much you love this place.”

  “But...” Her voice trailed off as she thought of all the reasons it wouldn’t be a good idea.

  Liam bent on one knee and took her hands in his. Seemed today was full of surprises.

  “Marry me, Harper.”

  All her objections flew out the window. Together, they could work out the details. “Is that a question or a demand?” she teased.

  Liam winked and tugged her down beside him on the kitchen floor. “Whatever you want it to be.”

  Much, much later, Liam surprised her yet again when he pulled out a bottle of champagne and a cake from the fridge.

  “You were mighty sure of my answer, weren’t you?” she said with a laugh.

  This time, instead of laughing, he pulled her body up against his own in a tight embrace. “I’d never take you for granted like that. Now are you going to marry me or what?”

  “You just try to slip away,” she whispered, practically bursting with happiness. “And the answer is a big ole hell yeah.”

  * * *

  If you enjoyed Unmasking the Shadow Man

  by Debbie Herbert,

  don’t miss Warning Shot by Jenna Kernan,

  available November 2019 wherever

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  Driving Force

  by Elle James

  Chapter One

  She struggled to surface from the black hole trying to suck her back down. Her head hurt and she could barely open her eyes. Every part of her body ached so badly she began to think death would be a relief. But her heart, buried behind bruised and broken ribs, beat strong, pushing blood through her veins. And with the blood, the desire to live.

  Willing her eyes to open, she blinked and gazed through narrow slits at the dirty mud-and-stick wall in front of her. Why couldn’t sh
e open her eyes more? She raised her hand to her face and felt the puffy, blood-crusted skin around her eyes and mouth. When she tried to move her lips, they cracked and warm liquid oozed out onto her chin.

  Her fingernails were split, some ripped down to the quick and the backs of her knuckles looked like pounded hamburger meat. Bruises, scratches and cuts covered her arms.

  She felt along her torso, wincing when she touched a bruised rib. As she shifted her search lower, her hands shook and she held her breath, feeling for bruises, wondering if she’d been assaulted in other ways. When she felt no tenderness between her legs, she let go of the breath she’d held in a rush of relief.

  She pushed into a sitting position and winced at the pain knifing through her head. Running her hand over her scalp, she felt a couple of goose-egg-sized lumps. One behind her left ear, the other at the base of her skull.

  A glance around the small, cell-like room gave her little information about where she was. The floor was hard-packed dirt and smelled of urine and feces. She wore a torn shirt and the dark pants women wore beneath their burkas.

  Voices outside the rough wooden door made her tense and her body cringe.

  She wasn’t sure why she was there, but those voices inspired an automatic response of drawing deep within, preparing for additional beatings and torture.

  What she had done to deserve it, she couldn’t remember. Everything about her life was a gaping, useless void.

  The door jerked open. A man wearing the camouflage uniform of a Syrian fighter and a black hood covering his head and face stood in the doorway with a Russian AK-47 slung over his shoulder and a steel pipe in his hand.

  Her body knew that pipe. Every bruise, every broken rib screamed in pain. She bit down hard on her tongue to keep from letting those screams out. Scrambling across the floor, she moved to the farthest corner of the stinking room and crouched, ready to fight back. “What do you want?” she said, her voice husky, her throat dry.

  The man shouted, but strangely, not in Syrian Arabic. He shouted in Russian. “Who are you? Why are you here? Who sent you?”

  Her mind easily switched to the Russian language, though she couldn’t remember how she knew it. In her gut, she knew her native language was English. Where had she learned to understand Russian? “I don’t know,” she responded in that language.

  “Lies!” the man yelled and started toward her, brandishing the steel rod. “You will tell me who you are or die.”

  She bunched her legs beneath her, ready to spring.

  Before he made it halfway across the room an explosion sounded so close, the ground shook, the walls swayed and dust filled the air. Another explosion, even closer, shook the building again.

  The man cursed, spun and ran from the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

  Her strength sapped, she slumped against the wall, willing the explosions to hit dead-on where she stood to put her out of her misery. She didn’t think she would live through another beating, which was sure to come, because she didn’t have the answers the man wanted. No matter how hard she tried to think, she couldn’t remember anything beyond waking up in her tiny cell, lying facedown in the dirt.

  Another explosion split the air. The wall beside her erupted, caving into the room. She was thrown forward, rubble falling on and around her. Dusty light spilled into the room through a huge hole in the wall.

  Pushing the stones, sticks and dirt away from her body, she scrambled to her feet and edged toward the gap. The explosion had destroyed the back of the building in which she’d been incarcerated. No one moved behind it.

  Climbing over the rubble, she stuck her head through the hole and looked right and left at a narrow alley down below.

  At the end of the alley was a dirt street. Men, covered in dust and carrying weapons, ran along the street, yelling. Some carried others who had been injured in the explosions. The sound of gunfire echoed through the alley and the men threw themselves to the ground.

  She ducked back inside the hole, afraid she’d be hit by the bullets. But then she realized she’d rather be shot than take another beating. Instead of waiting around for her attacker to return, she pulled herself through the gap and dropped to the ground. A shout sounded on the street at the other end of the alley. She didn’t wait to find out if the man was shouting at her; she turned the opposite direction and ran.

  At the other end of the alley, a canvas-covered truck stood, the back overflowing with some kind of cut vegetation, dried leaves and stalks. With men shouting and brandishing weapons all around her, she wouldn’t last long out in the open. She dove into the back of the truck and buried herself beneath the stems and leaves.

  A metal door opened and slammed shut, the truck’s engine roared to life and the vehicle rolled along the street. With no way to see where they were headed, she resigned herself to going along for the ride. Anywhere had to be better than where she’d been.

  As she lay beneath the sticks and leaves, she realized they were drying stalks of marijuana, a lucrative crop for Syrian farmers. Where they were taking their crop, she didn’t know. Hopefully, far enough away from the people who’d held her hostage. She touched her wrist where the skin had been rubbed raw, probably from having been tied with abrasive rope. In the meager light penetrating her hiding place, she noticed a tattoo on the underside of her wrist below the raw skin. She pushed the leaves aside to allow more light to shine in on what she recognized as a three-sided Trinity knot. Below the knot were a series of lines and shapes.

  The more she tried to decipher the symbols, the more her head ached, and her eyes blurred. The tattoo wouldn’t rub off. Since it was permanent, she should know what the knot and the symbols stood for. No matter how hard she tried to remember, she couldn’t.

  The rumble of the engine and the rocking motion of the truck lulled her into a fitful sleep, broken up by sudden jolts when the truck encountered a particularly deep pothole.

  What felt like hours later, the vehicle rolled into what appeared to be the edge of a town.

  If she planned on leaving the truck, she needed to do it before they stopped and found her hiding in the marijuana.

  She dug her way out of the sticks and leaves, crawled to the tailgate and peered out between slitted, swollen eyelids.

  The truck had slowed at an intersection in a dirty, dingy area of the town. With a dark alley to either side, this might be her only chance to get out unnoticed.

  As the truck lurched forward, she rolled over the tailgate, dropped to the ground and ducked into a shadowy alley. With her face bruised and bleeding, she wouldn’t get far without attracting attention. But she had to get away from the truck and figure out where to go from there.

  Turning left at the end of a stucco tenement building, she crossed a street and ducked back into a residential area. Between apartment buildings, lines were hung with various items of clothing, including a black abaya cloak. Glancing left, then right, she slowed, then walked up to the clothesline, pulled off the black abaya and walked away as if she owned it.

  A shout behind her made her take off running. She turned at the end of the building and shot a glance over her shoulder. An older woman stood beneath the space where the abaya had been. She wore another abaya and shook her fist.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, but she had to do something. With no money, no identification and a face full of bruises, she couldn’t afford to be seen or stop to ask for help.

  The salty scent of sea air and the cry of gulls gave her hope. If she were at a port town, she might find a way to stow away on a ship. But where should she go? She didn’t know who she was, or where she belonged, but one thing she was very certain about, despite the fact she could understand Syrian Arabic and Russian, was that she was American. If she could get back to America, she’d have a better chance of reconstructing her identity, her health and her life.

  Dressed in the abaya, she pulle
d the hood well over her head to shadow her battered face and wandered through neighborhoods and markets. Her stomach rumbled, the incessant gnawing reminding her she hadn’t eaten since the last meal the guards had fed her in her little prison two days ago. Moldy flat bread and some kind of mashed chickpeas. She’d eaten what she could, not knowing when her next meal might come. She needed to keep up her strength in the event she could escape. And she had.

  Walking through the thriving markets of a coastal town, everything seemed surreal after having been in a war-damaged village, trapped in a tiny cell with a dirt floor.

  As she walked by a fruit stand in a market, she brushed up against the stand and slipped an orange beneath her black robe. No one noticed. She moved on. When she came to a dried-fruit-and-nuts stand, she palmed some nuts. With her meager fare in her hands, she left the market and found a quiet alley, hunkered down and ate her meal.

  Her broken lips burned from the orange juice, but it slid down her throat, so refreshing and good, she didn’t care. The nuts would give her the protein she needed for energy.

  What she really wanted was a bath.

  Drawn to the water, she walked her way through the town to the coastline, learning as she went that she was in Latakia, Syria, a thriving party town on the eastern Mediterranean Sea. People from all over Syria came to this town to escape the war-torn areas, if only for a few days.

  The markets were full of fresh produce and meats, unlike some of the villages where fighting had devastated homes and businesses.

  Women dressed in a variety of ways from abayas that covered everything but the eyes to miniskirts and bikinis. No one noticed her or stopped her to ask why her face was swollen and bruised. She kept her head lowered and didn’t make eye contact with anyone else. When she finally made it to the coastline, she followed the beach until it ran into the shipyards where cargo was unloaded for sale in Syria and loaded for export to other countries.

  By eavesdropping, she was able to ascertain which ship was headed to the US later that night. All she had to do was stow away on board. She wasn’t sure how long it would take to cross the ocean, so she’d need a stash of food to see her through.