Her Silent Shadow: A Gripping Psychological Suspense Collection

by Edwin Dasso

  Amanda sniffled and wiped her nose on her hand. “Wh-what are you talking about?”

  “You’re supposed to start college in a few weeks. I’m going to call the school to see if you can move into the dorm early. That will be a safer place for you until I figure out who is doing this.”

  Amanda snorted. “Safe place? There is no safe place for us! As a child I had guns pointed at me in my own house; I’ve been kidnapped in foreign countries”—she shook her fists in air—“how can you even think there could be a safe place for me?” Amanda again buried her face in his chest and sobbed.

  Jack pulled her close and held her tight. “I’m sorry, Amanda. I know having me as a father has been tough on you, but…I-I never meant for any of this to happen. Not to either of us.” He gritted his teeth so tightly it hurt, the muscles rippling under the skin of his cheeks. “I just seem to have a knack for attracting trouble…”

  “What should I do in the meantime?”

  “Let’s talk to Wes Watley,” Hank said. “Maybe he can help us find who’s doing this.”

  Wes Watley had been friends with Jack since their Army days when Wes had been a CID officer. Over the years, they’d saved each other from death more than once. Wes had a promising career in the FBI, but the steps he’d taken to save Jack’s life when Jack had been shot at in a Veteran slave camp had cost Wes that career. He was now a highly sought-after private security consultant.

  Jack turned to Hank and nodded. “Good idea.”

  Amanda pointed at the pieces of her phone. “Dad…do you think those pictures are real? You’ve never told me any details of how Mom died—just that she was killed when you were both serving in Iraq.”

  Jack turned back to Amanda, staring silently at her for several seconds, then hung his head. “It doesn’t matter how she was killed, Amanda. Her death was horrible…even for a war zone.” He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. “You’re better off remembering her from other pictures—the pictures of her alive…smiling…holding you when you were a baby and toddler. That’s how you should remember her.”

  “But—”

  “I know—some sick bastard is sending this stuff to you, but don’t let them ruin your memories of your mother. Just know she didn’t suffer…” Jack swiped at a tear trickling down his cheek then pulled Amanda close, hugging her tightly.

  5

  Amanda sighed as she looked around her bedroom, trying to decide what else she wanted to pack to take with her to college. I know I’ll think of something I forgot as soon as I get there. She couldn’t say she was exactly happy to be moving into the dorm early—this room was home. The only home she’d ever known...and it held many warm memories for her. She sighed. Well…not all warm. Her thoughts drifted back to when Grandpa George had been murdered in the bedroom next to hers. Goosebumps ran down her arms, and she rubbed them. Still, it was home, and she would miss it.

  She gazed at the large but overflowing suitcase lying open on her bed then glanced around her room again. I wish I could take a few more pictures and stuffed animals. Her shoulders sagged. I don’t think there’s room for any more, though. She looped the strap of her nearly full backpack over a shoulder and meandered around her room, looking inside her closet, rifling through her desk and dresser drawers.

  She dropped onto her knees to rummage through the lowest dresser drawers. She pulled one open and was moving things around when her gaze fell upon the pistol case. She glanced at her door then slowly extracted the hard leather case, running her fingers over the smooth surface. She turned it around in her hands, admiring it, stopping when she saw the faded gold letters, LCD, engraved near the handle. Her mother’s initials. This had been her gun case when she was young. Seeing the letters always made Amanda think of her mother. I don’t remember her, but I still miss her. What had she been like? How would she and Amanda have gotten along. Great, I think!

  Amanda arose slowly and sidled over to her dresser then looked at the picture of her mother holding the gun case in one hand, a large trophy in the other, a broad smile on her face. She looked to be about twelve. Grandpa George stood next to her, also smiling, his arm around her shoulders. Amanda set the box gently onto her dresser top and opened it, revealing the Model 1911 Colt .45 she and her mother had always used during their respective shooting matches. She shot another quick look at her closed door then chewed on her lip. Should I? She scratched the back of her head as she debated. She’d read all the rules for the dorm she was moving into and knew firearms were prohibited.

  She wiped the pistol with an oilcloth then put it back in its case and gently closed the lid. She wandered around the rest of her room, doing a final inspection, then stepped back to the dresser and looked down at the case. I know Hank would say to take it. She put her hands on her hips and blew out a long breath. Dad might be okay with the idea but would say I shouldn’t break the rules—that it wasn’t worth the of risk getting tossed out.

  Amanda’s thoughts drifted back to times when she and her father had been in deadly situations. She was only nine when some low-life had broken into their home with the intent of killing her father. She’d used this gun to save his life. She was only thirteen when she and her father had been vacationing in Turkey and had been kidnapped by terrorists. A shudder rumbled across her body as she recalled her escape and the harrowing drive she’d had to make by herself to get back to Istanbul to find Hank and Grandpa George. There’d been other times, too, when she hadn’t been involved, but her father had been nearly killed by horrible men. That was the main reason Hank had moved in with her and her father, acting as a self-assigned bodyguard for them.

  She snorted. “Screw it! I’m Jack Bass’s daughter, and I never know what’s coming down the pike. I’d feel better if I had it close.” She snatched up the gun case and threw open the flap of her backpack, digging down through the contents. She nestled the case deep in the pack and pulled other items over the top to hide the gun’s presence. She cinched up the top of the rucksack and pulled the flap over it, fastened the buckle, then threw it on her bed next to the suitcase. She nodded curtly once. I’ll hide it as soon as I get there, and nobody will ever know.

  6

  Jack was in his back yard, tending to the roses that grew just outside the dining room window. He kneeled in the soft, warm mulch, dribbling it through his fingers as he spread it around his plants. He drew in a deep breath, smiling as the sweet aroma from his prized roses wafted into his nostrils. What more could I ask for? Beautiful to look at and the smells are intoxicating. A wave of relaxation rolled across his body. Yep—this is my Zen spot.

  He gently cradled a yellow rose in his hand, bending down to put his nose close to it, closing his eyes as he deeply inhaled the pleasing fragrance.

  “You guys are going to be seeing a lot more of me when Amanda is off at school.”

  Jack jumped when his phone dinged, telling him he’d received a message. I hate this social media stuff! It was all too impersonal for his taste. He much preferred live interaction and discussion. He sighed, debating whether to look at it. Oh, crap! It might be from Amanda! He jumped up, wiped the soil from his hands, then fumbled to dig his phone out of his pocket. Without really paying attention to the number, he popped open the message. He scanned the message, his mouth dropping open as he read.

  I hope that little bitch daughter of yours is enjoying seeing her dead mother as much as I enjoyed seeing my dead brother—my brother YOU killed, Jack Bass!

  Jack’s pulse thumped so hard in his head it felt like it would explode. He ground his teeth and growled, his hands shaking so hard he could barely type in his response.

  Who are you?

  You’ll find out soon enough

  Why are you doing this?

  You’ll see

  See what??? If it’s me you want, come get me, but leave my daughter out of this!

  Maybe. Or maybe I’ll kill her just like you killed my twin brother. In cold blood. So you can feel that pain.

 
; I never killed anyone in cold blood! Who was your brother?

  I’ll tell you before I kill you.

  Please! Just leave me alone. Leave US alone!

  Time to go…

  Jack gritted his teeth, his pulse pounding in his temples. He deleted the messages. Another whack-job! He shook his head. When will these misguided jerks leave me alone?

  “No!”

  Jack bolted upright in his bed, his legs tangled in sweaty sheets. His gaze darted around the dark room, stopping on various familiar landmarks. He blew out a long sigh and slumped his shoulders. He wasn’t in Iraq. He was home. In bed. A safe place far away from the hot, sand-blown hell-hole in his nightmare. His alarm clock showed 2:30 a.m. Just a nightmare…

  Damn! He ripped the damp sheets from his legs and swung them over the side of his bed. He leaned his elbows on his knees, resting his head in the palms of his hands, rolling his head slowly from side to side.

  “I haven’t had one of those in a long time,” he mumbled.

  Jack had a long history of PTSD-related nightmares. Though they’d become less frequent, once in a while, something triggered them, and they reared their ugly heads. Haunted him. Harassed him like a schoolyard bully. In the past, they’d been so severe he’d hated to sleep. He’d fought sleep, wishing to become an insomniac. But then the flashbacks started when he was awake. The mental torture had driven him to consider swallowing a bullet—as too many Veterans with PTSD had done, not wanting to live with the constant torment.

  Yes, Jack had PTSD with all its terrors. The most concerning to him, though, was his history of doing things during a flashback—things he could not recall doing when he came back to himself. That had been a key element in his being a suspect in murders once in the past. But, in the end, that had all been a setup by scoundrels hoping to get rid of Jack. Cowards who’d tried to use his PTSD against him.

  Images raced through Jack’s head, as they often did in the wee hours. His thoughts flew back to when he was in college and he’d walked in on his father who, in another of his drunken rages, had been beating Jack’s mother. That beating had left her dead, and Jack never forgave himself for not being there to protect her. He mashed his palms over his ears and shook his head hard. Get out of my head! He jumped from his bed and paced rapidly, trying to shake them loose.

  No such luck tonight. Jack’s thoughts turned to the first women he’d allowed himself to love in his adult life. Lori—Amanda’s mother—had been brutally killed right in front of him when they were serving overseas during the Iraq war. Despite telling himself he never wanted to feel the pain of another loss like that, Jack had later fallen in love with Janice, a nurse he’d subsequently worked with. She had even convinced Jack to get married.

  She was pregnant when she was murdered by a man seeking revenge on Jack because Jack had inadvertently foiled the embezzlement plot the man was involved in. She died only because Jack lived by the adage, “evil only succeeds when good men do nothing.”

  Jack jumped onto his bed and pulled his pillow tightly over his head, squeezing his eyes closed so hard they burned. Use your CBT training! Think of something positive! Amanda! Think about Amanda!

  When Amanda had come into Jack’s life, she had changed Jack’s desire to end his life. She’d given him purpose. She was four at the time and he felt he had to survive to nurture and protect her. Though he’d been getting treatment for his PTSD before Amanda came into his life, he began to take it more seriously after her arrival. And the treatments had worked—to some extent. The flashbacks and nightmares had grown farther apart and less intense. Yes…remember that—she helped you get better before. She still needs you!

  He took deep breaths and forced himself to relax. He sat up and leaned back against his headboard, blowing out a long breath.

  “I’m not going through this again. I need to go see Brent Love—today.”

  7

  Jack gripped his phone tighter as he waited for Dr. Brent Love to answer. Brent was the psychiatrist who had been treating Jack for his PTSD for years and had seen that demon at its worst as it tortured Jack. Jack had complete faith in Brent. After three rings, Jack began rapidly tapping his foot then started pacing around his home office.

  “Jack!” Brent answered. “It’s been a while. Everything’s fine I hope…although, you never call when that’s the case. What’s up?”

  “Hi, Brent. They’ve started again—the nightmares.” He blew out a long breath and ran his fingers through his hair. “I can’t do this again, Brent. I want to nip this in the bud—now.”

  “I was afraid you were going to tell me something like that.” Brent was silent a few seconds. “Any idea what might have triggered them?

  “Oh, yeah!”

  “No hesitation there—”

  “Nope. Wait till you hear about it. You won’t believe it.”

  Brent snorted. “If anyone but you had said that, I might have believed them.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Can I come see you today?”

  Again, the line went silent for a few seconds, then Brent responded. “Uh…sure…but I need to tell you something in the interest of full disclosure. I’m closing down this practice. I’m going to send a letter out to all my patients about it, but I might as well tell you now.”

  “What? You can’t do that! What am I going to do when this crap flares up?”

  “Relax, Jack—I’m not abandoning you. I’d never leave you hanging like that.”

  “Well, what then? You mean I’ll still be able to see you?”

  “Not unless you want to fly to the other coast…”

  “You know I can’t do that.” Jack rubbed at the back of his neck and rolled his head around to loosen the muscles tightening in his neck. “What am I supposed to do? Call you?”

  “You could do that…but the folks who recruited me for the position told me about a guy who’s opening a practice not far from you. He specializes in PTSD treatment, too.”

  “He won’t be you…”

  “He’s got great credentials, Jack. I feel fine referring you to him.”

  “Okay…give me his name—but I don’t like this,” Jack grumbled.

  “Glass half full, Jack,” Brent said “Think of this as an opportunity.”

  “I’d rather stick with you but…I’ll give him a try. Give me his name and number.” But I’m not going to like him.

  That afternoon, Jack stood outside the office door of the psychiatrist Brent had referred him to and stared at the name plaque on the door.

  “Dr. Dolion Stone.” He snorted. “I already don’t like his name. I doubt he’ll be as good as Brent was.”

  Jack entered and gazed around the compact space. Pretty spartan for a doctor’s office. He shrugged quickly. Oh, well. He’s just starting out. Cut him some slack, Bass. Jack shuffled over to a couch and plopped down onto it, crossing is arms over his chest and glancing at his watch. He’s late. Jack didn’t like doctors who were late and kept patients waiting.

  Jack cupped his hands over his mouth like a megaphone “Hello! Anybody home?”

  A doorknob rattled, and Jack snapped his eyes toward it. A short, slight man backed through a door, fumbling to tuck his shirttails into the waistband of his pants. He straightened his jacket and ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it down, then turned to Jack and smiled, his face red. He had a well-trimmed beard and wore round-framed glasses.

  “Sorry. I didn’t hear you come in. You must be Dr. Bass?”

  Jack stood and held out a hand. “Yep. Jack Bass—call me Jack. I’m not the formal type.”

  They shook hands, and Stone hurried over to a small refrigerator tucked back in a corner.

  “I’m Dolion Stone. Nice to meet you,” he called over his shoulder as he reached into the refrigerator. He straightened and turned, holding out a bottle of water to Jack as he walked toward him.

  “I find people often get a dry mouth when talking about sensitive subjects.”

  Jack shot a glance at Stone then at the bott
le and shrugged. “Thank you.” He took a long swallow and held up the bottle. “Very thoughtful of you.” Jack smiled. “I think I’m gonna like you.”

  Stone waved an arm at the couch. “Please have a seat.” Stone sat in an overstuffed, tufted leather chair several feet away. “Dr. Love sent me your records.” He cocked his head and rubbed his jaw. “Interesting history.” He focused his gaze on Jack’s eyes. “What brings you in this time?”

  “This.” Jack had opened the text he’d received the evening before. It contained the same picture of Lori that Amanda had received.

  Stone looked at the phone screen, his eyebrows shooting up as he frowned. “Oh, my!” He gazed at Jack as he handed the phone back. “I’m guessing that’s someone you know?”

  Jack stared at him a few seconds, his mouth slightly agape. “Uh…you might say that. She’s the mother of my daughter. She was a wonderful person, someone I loved deeply.”

  Stone wiggled in his chair, settling back into it. He pointed at Jack’s cellphone. “Can you tell me how that happened?”

  Jack slouched back against the couch, slumping down as he slowly slid the phone into a breast pocket. He blew out a long sigh as he rested his hands on his lap, staring down at them. I don’t know how me reliving that is going to help. He glanced quickly up at Stone then back at his hands, wringing them. I guess he needs to know the details to understand.

  “We were assigned to a Level-two MTF during the Iraq War.” He glanced up at Stone. “Medical Treatment Facility. The first stop for injured from the front lines…”

  Jack relayed the story of Lori’s death, stopping at several points to gather himself when his voice cracked. Once, he paused to swipe away a tear that trickled down his face. He hated being forced to relive that moment of his life. A hot knife ran through his heart every time he recalled the events of that day. After several minutes, he stopped and locked gazes with Stone.