The Jake Boulder Series: books 1 - 3

by Graham Smith

  It’s a form of mental torture. Every part of my body is screaming at me to hurry, while my brain is trying to send calming messages explaining why haste will be my undoing.

  I settle for lowering my arms and increasing their speed. It’s not much but it’s as much as I dare offer.

  It seems to work until a sudden wider sweep of Norm’s flashlight dances over my half-submerged body.

  I strain my ears listening for a taunting shout but it doesn’t come. The flashlight scans back and forth twice more before being switched off.

  Just as I start to hope Norm has given up, I hear the rumble of an engine starting.

  A sliver of moonlight dances across the water allowing me to see Norm’s boat moving towards me. It’s not moving fast, but neither am I.

  The flashlight comes back on. He’s mapping a grid which is creeping towards me.

  I have seconds to decide what to do. If I was a better swimmer I’d dive under the boat and try to escape behind him. As it is, I’m burning way too much energy trying to stay afloat.

  The idea of making a stand while hundreds of yards from terra firma is ridiculous, but I can’t think of a better option. I’ll never outswim his boat.

  I pull my hands behind me into pretty much the position he’d taped them and kick my legs to keep my head above water. Surprise my only weapon.

  As his flashlight picks me out, I whip my head away from him to hide the lack of tape over my mouth. I kick harder to make him think I’m trying to escape.

  The boat alters course and he cuts the engine. It’s a good sign.

  If he’d been intending to run me down and let the propeller savage me I would be done for. For the first time, I’m glad of his earlier boasts. He’s planned for me to drown and I know how important his plans are to him.

  This is what my whole plan of defence and attack is based on – his adherence to his methods. The earlier admission he’d wanted a more painful death for me was a signal of his self-imposed protocols.

  His choice of death for me has been preordained and he won’t deviate, regardless of how much he wants to.

  Either he will use the boathook to hold me under the surface, or he’d join me in the water and use his bare hands to finish the job.

  Both options give me a glimmer of a chance.

  I keep my mouth in the water and breathe through my nose. My legs kick a steady enough beat for me to retain my position. Taking care not to look directly at the flashlight, I watch his approach.

  A gust of wind several thousand feet above us moves a cloud enough for the moon to backlight the boat with an ethereal glow. Norm’s body is silhouetted against the sky. So is the boathook in his other hand, the curved lug distinctive against the sky.

  The bulk of the boat drifts closer until Norm is above me.

  His torch is dropped into the basin of the boat as the boathook upends and comes down. He’s aiming the tip towards the crook of my neck.

  There’s no hurry to his movements. He’s being slow and deliberate, intending to draw out my suffering.

  I let the rubberised tip find its mark.

  When it does, I kick harder so he has to use more force.

  The pressure increases on my shoulder until I feel myself being driven under the surface. Once my head is submerged, I stop kicking and grasp the boathook with my hands. Jerking it to one side, I haul with everything I have. My body soars upwards with the change in thrust and my head breaks the surface.

  Norm lets go before he’s dragged into the water, but I’ve got him off balance. His arms windmill as he tries to retain his equilibrium.

  The water doesn’t let me swing as hard as I’d like, but my aim is good.

  The wooden pole hits him on the side of the kneecap, the blow enough to finish what the yank started. He topples into the water with a violent roar.

  I take the chance to fill my lungs as I spin the boathook round so I can hit him with the business end. My fear of water has been dispersed by the fiery MacDonald blood surging through my veins.

  Trained Marine or not, right now I’m fancying my chances.

  My legs’ rhythmic kicking keeps my head above the water as I wait for him to surface.

  He doesn’t.

  Instead I feel strong hands grab my waistband.

  There’s no time to grab another breath before he drags me under. The wooden boathook in my hands pulls upwards towards the surface.

  I have to choose between having a weapon or two hands to fight him with.

  Fingers grasp at my throat.

  Instinct makes me release the boathook.

  I scrabble at his hands as the pressure on my throat increases.

  My fingers find and isolate his pinkie. A sharp tug back breaks it. The hand around my throat doesn’t loosen, so I move on to his ring finger.

  It takes a firmer jerk to break it, but I don’t stop there. I keep pulling as his hand slips from my throat.

  Extending my hands, I reach for his face.

  After showing him how to defend against strangulation, I’m not stupid enough to go for his throat.

  My thumbs find his eyes, but he shoves me away before I can put any force behind them.

  I thrash upwards and bang my head against the boathook as I surface. My fingers grasp it as I peer into the blackness searching for Norm.

  He’s a few feet away. I think about taking a swing at his head but he’s out of reach.

  He ducks under the surface after drawing in a rasping breath.

  Expecting another attack, I pull the boathook into a vertical position with the curved lug pointing down.

  Nothing happens. There’s no pulling on my legs, no stiletto piercing my skin.

  I listen for him splashing, in the hope he’s given up and is swimming away. I’m just starting to believe he has, when I feel the water behind me swirl and an arm snaking round my throat.

  He isn’t trying to choke me. Rather than pulling me back against him, he’s leaning forward using his weight to push my face into the water.

  A knot of muscle pressing against my left cheek tells me which arm he’s using. This knowledge lets me know where his face is.

  I tilt the boathook as I straighten my arms.

  Thrusting backwards with every last morsel of strength, I drive the boathook into his face. There’s a sudden halt to its momentum so I repeat the blow a second and third time.

  The arm leaves my neck and I kick my way towards some precious air.

  As I fill my lungs, I turn to see him thrashing in the water. He has both hands pressed against his face. There are unintelligible screams of pain and frustration coming from him.

  Whatever damage I’ve done to his face gives me enough of a distraction to do one of two things.

  I can make my way to the boat and escape to summon help to round him up. Or I can raise the boathook above my head and save the taxpayer an expensive trial.

  There’s no real decision to be made. If I leave him here, there’s a chance he will make it to shore and evade capture.

  He may take a while to heal, but one day soon, he’ll be ready to kill again. I can’t allow that.

  Taking a careful aim, I slam the lug of the boathook into his temple. It doesn’t just collide – it penetrates. His contortions slow to a judder then stop.

  The only movements he’s making are caused by my efforts to free the boathook.

  Pulling him towards me, I place my hands on his shoulders and push down.

  I start to count. It’s a slow count, which may be out by thirty seconds either way.

  It doesn’t matter how accurate I am. Six minutes under the surface with a crushed temple will make sure this ends tonight.

  When I reach three sixty, I let go and allow him to drift face down. I’m certain he’s dead by the way his limbs hang low in the water.

  I turn my head, locate his boat and set off in the worst backstroke known to man.

  THE END

  Copyright © 2017 Graham Smith

  The
right of Graham Smith to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear.

  Martin Luther King

  To my son, Daniel. May he never grow up in a world where hate triumphs love and the acceptance of cultural differences

  1

  I wake feeling like an NFL tackle dummy after a rigorous training session. Every muscle in my body aches and there appears to be an orchestra using the inside of my head as a rehearsal space. I don’t know much about orchestras but I can tell the one in my head isn’t the New York Philharmonic.

  After a moment of rubbing at what feels like dried blood, I manage to force an eye open – only to wish I hadn’t. I’m in a room I don’t recognise. My first guess is that it’s a motel room. I can’t be bothered to make a second one.

  There’s a woman next to me and her face is covered with fresh bruises. A trickle of red has congealed on her top lip and there’s no way she was born with a nose shaped like that.

  Beyond her I see the detritus of passion. Clothes lie in a tangled heap on a chair. A bra hangs from the handle of a closet and, more telling, an open condom wrapper sits atop the bedside table.

  The woman beside me is a stranger. While it’s not unusual for me to pick someone up for the night, as a rule of thumb, I tend to remember their name the next day. Or at least their face.

  I sure as hell remember their existence. All I know about this woman is she’s not the one I’m supposed to be dating.

  None of that matters. What’s more worrying is the mess her face is in.

  Who’s been beating on her? Was it me? Was I so out of it that I raised my hand to her?

  Another more worrying thought enters my head.

  Is she still alive?

  I put my fingers to her throat.

  There’s a pulse. Slow, regular and steady. Just the way it should be with a sleeping person. A wave of relief washes over me, but it’s short-lived. I see raw and bruised knuckles when I draw back my hand. A check of the other hand finds the same.

  If the marks on her face are my doing, I’ll never be able to look at myself in a mirror again. It may be a cliché, but it doesn’t stop me feeling like a low life. I’ve never liked men who beat women and the thought I may have become one is abhorrent.

  I don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to work out that I had been fighting and gotten laid last night. What I need to do now is find out in which order and with whom.

  A spear of agony runs through my body as I swing my feet to the floor. It’s bad but not unbearable. Or unfamiliar. As a doorman, I’m used to getting into fights. It’s a long time since I lost one, but when two men go toe-to-toe, more often than not, both will suffer.

  I take a look around the room and confirm I’m in a motel. The bare threads in the carpet tell me it’s not one of the most expensive motels I’ve ever stayed in.

  The woman groans in her sleep, rubs an eye and flops her arm onto the top of the sheet. I see needle marks. Lots of them. I take a closer look at her face and the body below it. She might be draped in a sheet, but I can see that she’s so thin she almost appears emaciated. The unbruised parts of her face are layered in thick makeup and there’s a lankness about her hair.

  Her appearance makes me wonder if she hires the room by the hour. My next thought is one of relief as I remember the condom wrapper. I may have been drunk enough to sleep with a drug-addled hooker, but at least one of us had the sense to use protection.

  I totter into the bathroom and turn on the shower. Its pressure is feeble at best and never gets above lukewarm, but the water combined with slow movements does enough to restore a degree of suppleness to aching limbs.

  When I return to the bedroom, the woman is sitting with her back resting against the headboard. Her head is held in shaking hands. I pull on my pants and look for my shirt.

  ‘Thanks for last night.’ Her voice is thin. I’m unsure whether she means it or not. She may be trying to keep me sweet; fearful of me and my intentions.

  I look at the condom wrapper. It’s not the same brand as the ones in my wallet, but that means nothing when I’ve been drinking. It could be one she’s provided – in which case the sex was consensual after the fighting, and everything will be cool.

  If it’s one I’ve bought in a drunken stupor, there’s a chance the marks on her face are my doing. A worse thought hits me, but it’s not one I’m prepared to give brain space.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I keep my tone even and my posture unthreatening.

  She looks at me with a bloodshot eye; the other is swollen to a slit. ‘Don’t you remember?’

  I shake my head. It’s a serious mistake. The movement knocks the orchestra further out of tune and makes my neck feel as if my head is being pulled off.

  She gives a tight grin. ‘You saved me from a beating.’ A shrug. ‘Well, a worse beating.’

  ‘Did I?’ I hear the relief in my voice. I didn’t believe I’d been the one who hit her but, not being able to remember anything about last night, I haven’t been able to rule it out.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and look at her. ‘I’m sorry, but I was wasted last night. I don’t remember anything.’

  ‘You sure were, honey.’ There’s a hint of southern drawl to her accent. ‘Didn’t stop you kickin’ Benji’s ass though.’

  ‘Was that who did that?’ I point at her face.

  ‘Yeah.’

  I rub my bruised face and body. Whoever this Benji was he either put up a good fight, or I was so drunk he managed to land a few blows of his own. It doesn’t surprise me that I stepped in to protect a strange woman. I’ve never approved of men who hit women and the trace of MacDonald blood in my veins doesn’t need much provocation.

  That’s the trouble with my drinking. I don’t do it very often, but when I do I drink so much I lose all memory. I’m not even sure where I am.

  ‘Where are we?’ I remember driving into a town called Hayden, although I’m not sure it was yesterday.

  Her face shows understanding and a little sorrow at the blankness of my memory.

  ‘We’re in Steamboat Springs. It’s Wednesday, and after you’d kicked Benji’s ass you carried on drinkin’. By the time you were on your second bourbon, he’d came back with his buddies.’

  This information gives me some reassurance. I’d left home on Sunday night, so there are only two days unaccounted for. Steamboat Springs is about three hours east of Casperton, or two if I’m driving. My injuries are the result of fighting a gang rather than an individual. I can accept that. There’s no shame in being beaten up by a gang.

  Still, there’s always pride. ‘Did I take any of them down before they got me?’

  ‘They didn’t get you. You kicked all their asses.’ She looks at me with a mixture of awe and respect. ‘There was six of them. Ain’t never seen anyone fight like you before. Every time they knocked you down you got back up. When you knocked them down they stayed where they was.’

  I should ask why Benji had been hitting her, but I don’t want to get myself embroiled in her life. Whatever happened between us last night was an isolated incident; I’ll return to Casperton and she’ll carry on with her life. If she has any sense, she’ll keep away from Benji.

  ‘You saved me last night. If it hadn’t been for you, Benji woulda used his knife on me.’ Her head dips. ‘Nobody’d pay for a ho
oker with a ruined face.’

  She doesn’t need to continue; the holes in her arms explain why she’s hooking. I can’t help my eyes straying to the condom wrapper.

  Her eyes follow mine. ‘You passed out before I could say thank you.’ She climbs out of the bed and stands naked before me. ‘I still want to say it.’

  I’m saved from having to decline her offer by a hammering at the door. As I don’t even know where I am, it can only be bad news. I pull on my boots as the banging continues.

  The noise abates and a familiar voice rings out. ‘Jake! It’s me. Get your shit together and get out here. Now!’

  The voice belongs to my best friend and sometimes employer, Alfonse Devereaux.

  I push away thoughts of how he found me and concentrate instead on the key points of his four sentences: he’s sworn – something he only does when he’s under great stress or is emotional; he’s come to find me, and therefore needs me. As a rule, when I have one of my drinking binges, he leaves me to my own devices or comes to retrieve me when I call him.

  The woman pulls the sheet back over herself. ‘By the way, I’m Leigh.’

  There’s no point in pretending I’ve remembered her name. ‘I’m Jake Boulder. If Benji bothers you again call me.’ I pass her a card – unsure whether to kiss, hug or shake hands with her. In the end, I do none.

  I open the door to be confronted with Alfonse’s anxiety-creased face.

  ‘C’mon. I need your help and I need it now.’

  2

  Alfonse doesn’t say another word until we’re travelling west on the Forty. He hands me deodorant, breath mints and a scowl in one movement. When he does speak his voice is filled with urgency and worry.

  My comprehension is a little slower than usual. I struggle to grasp what he’s telling me.

  ‘So your cousin and his wife have left home in a hurry. I don’t see what the problem is.’

  ‘Weren’t you listening? They didn’t leave home in a hurry. They were taken.’

  I rub over my face with both hands until I reach the back of my neck. Alfonse isn’t one to jump at shadows, but I can’t believe a family of four have been abducted from their home. Kidnappers take one family member and they would target a wealthy family. I don’t know Alfonse’s cousin too well, but I know he’s a regular guy who draws an honest wage for an honest day’s work. All four of them being taken suggests something else.