Her Silent Shadow: A Gripping Psychological Suspense Collection

by Edwin Dasso

  Outsourced

  Primed (book 2 of ‘Outsourced’)

  Lethal Mandate (book 3 of ‘Outsourced’)

  Shadows series:

  Leaving Shadows (book 1 of the Shadows series)

  Facets (prequel to book 2 of the Shadows series)

  Chasing Shadows (book 2 of the Shadows series)

  Full Disclosure

  Death Mask

  Writer’s Bearings

  Death of a Sparrowman – a spy tale

  2012

  the CULL series:

  Bloodline (book 1 of ‘the CULL’)

  Bloodstone (book 2 of ‘the CULL’)

  Blood Feud (book 3 of ‘the CULL’)

  Blood Demon (book 4 of ‘the CULL’)

  Blood Kill (book 5 of ‘the CULL’)

  Non-fiction:

  How NOT to be an ASPIRING Writer

  Read More from Eric J. Gates and keep up to date on all of Eric J. Gates’ thrillers.

  There is also competition where you could become a character in a future novel.

  www.ericjgates.com

  With Best Intentions

  A Novel

  By

  Tim Chapman

  Contents

  Author’s Content advisory

  Preface

  1. Hades

  2. Violet

  3. Hades

  4. Violet

  5. Hades

  6. Violet

  7. Hades

  8. Violet

  9. Hades

  10. Violet

  11. Hades

  12. Violet

  13. Hades

  14. Violet

  15. Hades

  16. Violet

  17. Hades

  18. Violet

  19. Hades

  20. Violet

  21. Hades

  22. Dana

  About the Author

  Also by Tim Chapman

  Author’s Content advisory

  With Best Intentions

  Language intensity

  Stronger profanity, with up to 5 uses of the f-word

  Sexuality intensity

  Sexual references that might include some details

  Violence intensity

  Mild violence, fairly detailed with some blood

  Preface

  An earthquake traps two men and a woman in an underground garage—a Hades of crushed cars and concrete rubble. They must work together to survive, but one of the men is a sexual predator, and he has other plans. “With Best Intentions” is a tale of toxic masculinity, and the fragility of existence.

  “Man is nothing else but what he makes of himself.”

  ― Jean-Paul Sartre

  1

  Hades

  There are car alarms screaming. I sit up quickly, bumping my head on the undercarriage of the Hummer. Confused, I look around for Dana. Then I remember. I wipe the grime off my face with my free hand and look out from under the car at the rubble filling the parking garage. It's dark. Hazy dark. I can't see much past the car next to me, my Honda, crushed by a slab of concrete. I work my other hand out from under a pile of debris and waggle my fingers. Nothing feels broken.

  I slide out from under the Hummer and stand, leaning on its passenger door for support. My head hurts. Looking past my car, I can see a wall. In the other direction a few lights glow, faintly. Under the noise of the car alarms, I hear moaning. I work my way across some jagged chunks of concrete and around the front of the Hummer to the driver's side. I touch my forehead, and when I bring my hand away there's blood on it. Shit. I might be in trouble here.

  I hear the moaning again and sense something moving through the haze. The air is choked with dust. It's hard to breathe. I can’t really see much, so I take it slow. I can just make out a moving shape, a man crawling through the rubble. I inch over to him and put my hand on his shoulder. He starts and pulls away.

  "It's okay”. I say. “Are you hurt? Do you need help?" Blood runs into my eye, and I wipe it with my shirtsleeve. "I guess we've had an earthquake."

  "Earthquake my ass. It was probably some goddamn terrorists. Blew the fucking building and brought the whole thing down on our heads." He turns and sits, his back against a ruined Porsche.

  He's perspiring heavily, and his thinning brown hair is slicked back flat against his head. His suit looks expensive. He's out of shape. His face is jowly, and he has a noticeable paunch. I get the impression of size. If he had been standing he would have been enormous. I don't see any visible injuries, but he's flushed, and his breathing is labored.

  "Are you all right?” I ask again.

  "Just shut up a minute."

  I sit on the concrete floor and try to assess my own condition. My head isn’t bleeding heavily, just sort of oozing, but there’s a lump coming up. I take the bottom of my shirt between my teeth, tear off a strip of material, and press the cloth against my forehead. My pulse throbs under my fingers. I sit there, putting pressure on the wound and listening to the guy’s breathing for a while.

  Finally, he speaks up. "I just got here when the roof fell in. Look. There's my car." He points to a silver Mercedes. "Hardly a scratch on it. If it wasn’t surrounded by rubble I could drive it out. My office is here in Trachis Tower. Sixth floor. Real estate. I don't know who those bastards were targeting. Most of the other tenants are lawyers, entertainment attorneys, and whatever.”

  As he speaks, another shockwave hits. With a horrible grinding noise, a concrete slab drops from the ceiling onto the Mercedes. A cloud of dust rolls over us. I clench my eyes shut and cover my head with my arms. The car's alarm bleats uselessly for a minute, then switches off. The other car alarms have quit, too. In their place is the creaking of steel beams and the grinding sound of moving concrete. I look up at the ceiling, expecting a slab to fall on me, expecting to be crushed. Adrenaline and fear combine. I shiver.

  The guy spits out a mouthful of dust. "Son of a bitch! I loved that car." He rubs his eyes with both hands. "I'm not gonna die in a fucking parking garage. Let’s get out of here."

  The ground shakes again. My heart’s pounding in my chest. My tongue is thick in my mouth, but I manage to say, "Find a truck. Something with a strong frame and big wheels."

  Bits of concrete and streamers of dust fall around me as I crawl to the Hummer. The big man is trying to wedge himself under the car, too. Something crashes down behind us, and we're enveloped by a cloud of dust.

  My chest is tight, and it’s hard to catch my breath. I try to relax. Try to breathe. Instead of thinking about dying, I think about Dana. Is she alive? Is she hurt? Was she at home when the quake hit? Home. Home implies a dwelling, but it's never really that, is it? Dana is my home. And now I'm homeless. I fucked up. I fucked up bad.

  I peer out from under the Hummer for the second time that afternoon. The bleeding over my eye has stopped, but there’s a lump on my head the size of a peanut. It hurts to touch it. The garage is an apocalyptic nightmare. Slabs of concrete are scattered around, some standing on end or leaning against cars. Some of the cars are crushed or damaged while others stand untouched. The smell of gasoline mixes with the sting of the dusty air. The big guy is standing in the middle of a small open space, his face illuminated by a light radiating from his hand. It takes me a second to recognize it as the light from a cell phone. Mine is on the back seat of my car. I phoned Dana as I was driving to Trachis Tower, but she didn't pick up, so I tossed the phone over my shoulder.

  I came here to see our marriage counselor, Dr. Weiss. Dana and I went through six weeks of counseling sessions. It didn't help. Dana was too angry, felt too betrayed. She kicked me out. Showering at the gym is okay, but sleeping in my car sucks. I thought maybe Dr. Weiss could talk to her. Get her to give me another chance. I made a mistake, a one-night stand, and this is how I'll pay for it, crushed under our counselor's office building.

  How bad is the rest of the LA area? Hopefully, Dana was at work when the quake hit. Her office is out in the valley. Maybe the quake mis
sed her. Or was she at our apartment in Hollywood? What if she needs help? We don't know our neighbors very well. Mostly we just listen to the couple next-door scream at one another.

  The light in the guy’s hand goes out, and he sighs.

  "What’s up?" I ask.

  "We’re trapped. I checked out the rest of the garage. Every exit is blocked. We’re surrounded by concrete and steel beams.”

  “Did you call someone? Let them know we’re here?”

  “I can't get a signal. No call. No text. No email. Nothing."

  "Did you try moving around? Maybe closer to a wall."

  "Of course I tried. I'm not a fucking idiot."

  I climb out from under the Hummer and survey the garage. It’s dark, but there are a few fluorescent lights glowing off in the distance. Some are hanging down by their wires. The whole garage is shrouded in gloom.

  "My name’s Hercule,” I say.

  “Ajax.” He holds out his hand. It's enormous. “Hercule, eh? That’s a first.”

  I shake his hand. “My parents named me after the fictional detective, Hercule Poirot."

  “Lucky you. Almost as bad as Ajax. Call me Jax.”

  Most of the damage to my Honda is on the front end. I can see my phone through the shattered rear window, so I peel away the glass and reach in to get it. It still works, though the battery life is low.

  Jax has turned on the headlights of several cars. I do the same. Taking the tire iron from my trunk, I move from car to car, breaking out driver's side windows and switching on headlights. I hold my phone up for him to see. "No bars.”

  “No shit,” he says. “Hey, why don't you wander around and see if you get a signal?"

  I don't want to waste battery power, but I do want to look for a way out. Maybe one of the stairwells is clear. We're in a pocket between pillars. On either side of the pillars are piles of broken concrete. I take my tire iron and go exploring. Behind me there’s a solid wall, so I step across the rubble, past the open space in front, to check out the other side. The few fluorescents that are still working light some of the garage, but this area is pretty dark and stretches far enough that I can’t see the far wall. I spend a little battery power and turn on my phone, holding the glowing screen out in front of me. There are rows of cars, some undamaged but most crumpled under blocks of concrete and steel beams. I look inside a few of them, breaking out windows to turn on headlights, and look for cell phones or anything of use. Surrounding the cars are piles of debris, toppled pillars and mounds of stone. One of the mounds might be covering up a stairway or an elevator. I check my phone again. Still no bars, so I turn around and work my way back to the Hummer. Jax is in the driver's seat. He's tilted it back and is reclining, one big foot up on the dash.

  “Yeah, all the exits are blocked,” I say. “The building must have collapsed around us. I guess we got lucky.”

  Jax snorts. “Lucky? We’re trapped under the ruins of a twelve-story building. We’re either going to starve or suffocate or be crushed when the rest of the building caves in on us.”

  “Or a search team could rescue us. Maybe we need to make some noise. Let them know we’re here.”

  “If you start honking car horns, I’ll knock you the fuck out. I’m tired.” He yawns and closes his eyes. “I’m going to take a nap.”

  My hands and face feel gritty. I crawl into the Hummer's big back seat and wipe the dust off my face with my sleeve. I spit on my palms and wipe them on my pants.

  I know there are probably worse people than Jax to be trapped with in a parking garage. As a mental exercise I try to think of someone who would be a bigger pain in the ass. No one comes to mind.

  I sit there for a while, staring out into the gloom and listening, listening for anything—the sound of digging, a rescue team shouting to us through the fallen concrete, the rumble of another shockwave. Something’s moving out there. I can't identify the sound, so I sit up and strain to hear it. I hold my breath, not wanting to drown out the faint noise with the sound of my breathing, and then it's gone.

  "Listen," Jax says, "We've got to come up with some way to get out of here."

  "Sure. If we die, the terrorists win."

  "I thought you said this was caused by an earthquake."

  "It was caused by an earthquake. I was just making a joke."

  "Funny guy. Ha ha. We’re gonna die, and you’re making jokes."

  "We should probably start digging out,” I say, “but I don't know the layout of the garage. We could spend hours digging and wind up running into a wall instead of a doorway."

  "Or we could dislodge the wrong stone and bring the whole building down on our heads. No thanks. What else you got?"

  "Our only other alternative is to contact people above us. Let them know there's someone trapped under the building."

  "And that's why you wanted to start honking a car horn, eh? All right."

  He picks up a chunk of broken concrete and shuffles off. I hear the thud of the concrete against glass and, a short time later, the blare of a car horn. I wander over. Jax is sitting in the front seat of a vintage Jaguar. He grins when he sees me and points at the wood steering wheel. "Pretty classy, huh?"

  "If you keep up a rhythmic beep like that they might think it's just coming from a broken car alarm or something. Why don't you vary the honking pattern? Try using the Morse code for help, S.O.S."

  "Yeah. What is that, two longs and a short, right?"

  "I think it's three shorts, three longs; then three more shorts."

  He honks out an S.O.S., reaches across the seat, and pushes open the passenger-side door. “Climb in,” he says.

  I settle myself in the leather seat and notice the dash. It's wood, too. “Sweet ride.”

  “Yeah. The owner’s gonna be pretty pissed about his busted window. So, what do you do, guy?”

  “For a living? I’m a graphic designer. Mostly print, some web design. The last couple of years I've been working for a magazine publisher.”

  “What are you doing here?” He gestures to the surrounding garage.

  “My wife wants a divorce. I had an appointment to talk to our marriage counselor.”

  “Been there, done that. Three times. I’m currently on wife number four. So who did the cheating, you or her?”

  It's difficult for me to admit how stupid I've been. Like a teenager, I allowed myself to be controlled by hormones and hurt feelings. “Me. But it was just one time, an impulse thing. Alcohol. A coworker. I immediately regretted it.”

  “How’d the wife find out? You didn’t get a case of the guilts did you?”

  “No. She got a phone call. My coworker was upset that I wasn't interested in a relationship.”

  “That’s women,” he says. “Everything’s about them. Hell. All my exes took me to the cleaners when we divorced. I should have taken Clint Eastwood's advice.”

  "What's that?"

  "Cut out the middleman. Just find a woman you hate and buy her a house."

  “That seems a little cynical,”

  "Ahh, most women are selfish bitches. Look, my wife’s okay. I liked wife number two better, but that's water under the bridge. This one, she's fun, but she’s let herself go. From the back it looks like she’s shoplifting a couple of Christmas hams.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. The guy’s a jerk, but I certainly can’t claim the moral high ground.

  “Maybe we should start honking out our S.O.S. again,” I say. “I doubt we’ll suffocate down here, but I’d like to get dug out before the rest of the building comes down on us.”

  Jax gets out of the Jaguar. "It's all yours. I'm through with this bullshit."

  "We can take turns. I'll sit here honking for an hour. Then you take an hour. That way there's a better chance of someone hearing us."

  “Ask me again in an hour," he says and stalks off toward the Hummer.

  The guy is definitely unlikeable, but being trapped beneath a twelve-story building is enough to make anyone testy.

&n
bsp; I honk the horn, trying to produce a clear SOS pattern. My head aches, but I keep honking. The Jaguar’s wood dash and steering wheel are pretty nice. It would be a fun car to drive but not a good coffin.

  2

  Violet

  Today, I saw Violet pass by the art department on her way to the break room and decided to ask her if she’d join me for lunch. I felt guilty even before I asked her. The guilt didn’t stop me, though. I mean, it’s just lunch, right?

  I read an article once about “work spouses.” It’s a phenomenon that’s been around for a long time, but psychologists have only recently come up with a name for it. The idea is that you find someone at your place of employment who you’re attracted to and start treating them the way you’d treat your real husband or wife. It doesn’t always lead to sex. In fact, sometimes the couples bicker the way real married couples do. According to the article’s author, it’s still considered a form of cheating. There are work spouses at my office. It’s pretty obvious when two people pair up, and there are several pairs. I hadn’t given it too much thought. Until Violet.

  Her office is over in advertising. She’s a sales associate, selling advertising space in our magazines. Her male clients love dropping in to see her at the office, even though they could easily conduct all their business by phone or email. She wears clingy dresses to show off her excellent figure. She has a slight drawl and a slow cadence in her speech that would sound cartoonish on anyone else. On her it sounds like pure sex. A client takes her to lunch at least once a week. She’s married.