Tears of God
Steven F. Freeman
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by www.LLPix.com
Copyright © 2016 Steven F. Freeman
All rights reserved.
DEDICATION
To beta readers Jo Eberhardt, Elaine Rivers, Sharron Grodzinsky, Willow Humphrey, and Ruth Gresh, whose editorial feedback has transformed my scribblings from a diamond in the rough to a work to which I’m proud to sign my name.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to Jo Eberhardt, Ruth Gresh, Cheryl Snapperman, Myron Kaufman, Lynn Hesse, Chris Daniel, Priscilla Gould, Elaine Rivers, Willow Humphrey, and Sharron Grodzinsky for their invaluable feedback and assistance.
PURCHASE OTHER BOOKS IN ALTON AND MALLORY’S “BLACKWELL FILES” SERIES NOW!
Book 1: Nefarious
Book 2: Ruthless
Book 3: T Wave
Book 4: Havoc
Book 5: The Devil’s Due
Book 6: The Evolution of Evil
Book 7: Tears of God
Book 8: When the Killing Starts (Coming in late 2016. See below for notification when available.)
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Like your thrillers more intense? Author Steven F. Freeman also writes under the name Malcolm Pierce.
Blood Passage
Maintenance supervisor Brian Francisco goes to sleep for the night in his Midwest apartment and awakes to find himself a prisoner aboard an oil tanker at sea.
“An Unforgettable ride” Readers’ Favorite five-star review
Interested in a stand-alone short story? This 30-minute read (not part of The Blackwell Files) makes a perfect bedtime story:
Coming Home
CHAPTER 1
Fifteen Years Ago
Cutter Wilson had to die.
But he might not if the Hunter wasn’t careful. Poisoning a person wasn’t child’s play. It took a certain degree of finesse, especially if one wanted the death to appear natural.
Cutter’s good health rendered the job even more challenging. People would question why a physically fit Army officer of only 41 years would drop dead of cardiac arrest. The ME might even perform an autopsy. No evidence of foul play, nothing to contradict such a diagnosis, could be left behind.
A little digging had proved sufficient to identify the perfect opportunity for the poisoning: Fort Bragg’s annual Officers’ Ball. The gala was scheduled for ten days hence, just enough time to make the necessary arrangements.
At first, the Hunter’s plan seemed to hit a snag. Sunset Caterers, the gala’s food supplier, had already hired all the additional staff needed for such a large event. The next day, the Hunter had triggered the company’s fire alarm and paid a clandestine visit to its kitchen. Hours later, a sudden outbreak of flu-like symptoms had decimated the caterer’s staff. Desperate for workers, Sunset had called the Hunter, offering a job for the night of the gala only. The Hunter had pretended to object to the temporary arrangement but had at last agreed.
On the night of the ball, the Hunter donned the white dinner jacket and matching cotton gloves of the caterer’s staff. He cut a slit in the index finger of the right glove and slipped three tiny, beige pills into the crack.
He hurried to collect a tray of soup cups. Holding the tray on his shoulder, he pushed out of the kitchen into the vast ballroom of the Grand Manor Hotel, where a sea of soldiers in dress uniforms and their spouses packed the space.
The Hunter weaved his way among dozens of tables and those few guests who hadn’t already taken a seat. Arriving at his assigned table, he set a soup cup in front of each guest. At the fourth seat, the placard read, “Colonel Cutter Wilson.” As the Hunter turned to retrieve a cup, he used his thumb to push the three pills into the warm liquid, then placed the cup in front of the colonel. The soup consisted of a thick cheddar recipe in which the pills would lie undetectable, and the diminutive size of the serving cups virtually guaranteed everyone would finish their portions.
After dispensing the rest of the soup, the Hunter returned to the kitchen. His task was done, but leaving now would draw attention to himself. If an inquiry were made, he wanted no indications of unusual behavior on his part that a curious investigator might ponder. So he continued to serve the rest of the meal.
At last, after three long hours of serving the banquet and retrieving loads of dirty dishes, the event ended. The Hunter collected his meager pay and stripped off the caterer’s jacket. He placed it in the caterer’s laundry machine himself, mindful of the importance of eliminating all traces of his DNA from the garment. He kept the gloves, which he would later toss in a dumpster behind a bar.
Now to wait. The pills’ tough outer shells would keep them from dissolving for another five hours. Once they did, though, nothing could save Wilson. The pills were a custom blend: the first active layer contained a heavy dose of the barbiturates Wilson used most nights as a sleep aid, while the second layer contained a massive dose of digitalis to force cardiac arrest. The medicines would run their deadly course before Wilson was scheduled to awake. To all observers, he would appear to have died in his sleep—tragic, but not inexplicable, especially considering the military ball’s liberal alcohol policy and the extra sleep-aid the man would have appeared to consume.
Three hours later, the Hunter leaned back in a first-class seat on a 757 streaking over the Atlantic Ocean. He stirred his drink and checked his watch. Cutter Wilson had two hours to live.
CHAPTER 2
Present Day
Alton Blackwell diverted his attention from the interstate long enough to lay a hand on the shoulder of his sleeping wife, Mallory. “Honey, we’re going to be at your mom’s house pretty soon.”
She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “I feel like we just left Washington a few hours ago. How long was I asleep?”
Alton smiled. “Almost three hours.”
“Really? Sorry. I know I promised to keep you company on the drive.”
“It’s fine. Buster filled in for you.”
At the sound of his name, the couple’s Labrador raised his head from his backseat blanket and wagged his tail.
“Anyway,” continued Alton, “I’m glad you got some sleep. You burned the midnight oil pretty late yesterday wrapping up that trucking-company case.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me.” His wife, a forensic accountant with the FBI, had labored over the embezzlement case until nearly two in the morning. “At least it’s finished. Now it’s in my boss’s hands.”
Twenty minutes later, they pulled onto the expansive estate of Beverly Wilson, Mallory’s mother. The spacious, circular front drive contained more than the usual trickling fountain. Today, it was packed with vehicles from dozens of guests who had already arrived for the special occasion.
Alton pulled into a vacant spot on the oak-lined driveway. He fastened Buster to a leash while Mallory retrieved a present wrapped in gold foil from the Explorer’s rear storage s
pace.
They entered the house to find the party in full swing. Crowds of chatting guests filled the lower floor, and You Give Love a Bad Name thumped from speakers somewhere in the rear of the house.
Alton deposited Buster in the downstairs den with Skipper, his mother-in-law’s chubby Maltese. The two canine friends wagged their tails and sniffed in greeting.
Alton returned to the upstairs bustle and reunited with his wife. “Any idea where your mom is?”
“Not really.”
He took the present from Mallory, who had difficulty keeping her petite arms wrapped around the cumbersome package. “Let’s put this on the gift table and go find her.”
They discovered Beverly chatting with old friends on the side deck, a vast wooden structure commanding a sweeping view of the side yard’s towering evergreens and perfectly-manicured landscaping.
“Sweetie!” cried Beverly as she spotted them. “And Alton!” She wrapped each of them in a long embrace.
“Happy birthday, Mom,” said Mallory.
“I told you all you didn’t need to drive such a long way.”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” said Alton. “You know that.”
They spent the next few minutes catching up. “Okay, you two,” said Beverly. “I’ve been meaning to ask when you’re going to give me a grandchild.”
Mallory laughed. “Mom, there’s no rush. We’ve only been married four months.”
“I know. But I’m not getting any younger, you know,” she replied in mock protest.
“Permission to speak freely,” said Alton to the retired Army general.
Beverly chuckled and placed a hand on her son-in-law’s arm. “Of course.”
“Raising children is a serious responsibility. We’d like to enjoy our marriage for a little while first.”
Beverly grew thoughtful. “All joking aside, I think that’s a wise decision, Alton.” For a moment, her eyes held a faraway, wistful look. “You know, Cutter and I had Scott before we’d been married a year. Then Mallory came along, and life really got busy. Part of me wishes we had waited a little longer.” Then the twinkle returned. “But if we had, I suppose we would’ve had some other kids, not Scott and your wife. So it’s all good.”
A new guest appeared onto the deck and greeted Beverly with the customary salutations of the occasion. Beverly looked a little torn between the new arrival and her family.
Mallory leaned close. “Mom, why don’t you mingle with your guests? We’ll be here all weekend to visit.”
Her mother nodded. “Thanks, Sweetie.”
Mallory walked back inside with Alton. They made their way to a broad crystal bowl, where Alton used a silver ladle to dip a cup of punch for each of them.
“Sorry about Mom and her baby talk,” said Mallory. “She’s just excited.”
“It’s fine. David and Fahima have been asking me the same thing,” said Alton, referring to their best friends.
“What did you tell them?”
“Same thing we just told your mom. We’re not ready for kids yet.”
They sauntered onto the back patio and encountered a moment of serenity. The patio’s only other occupants consisted of an ancient couple who sat in chairs with cushioning so deep the husband and wife looked at risk of never rising again.
The Blackwells retreated to the other side of the broad space, where Alton admired the view of gentle foothills covered in a forest of pines.
The backdoor opened, and another guest walked onto the patio. A thin, wiry man of middle years walked over to Mallory and nodded in greeting.
“You’re Mallory Wilson, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, but it’s Blackwell, now,” she replied, gesturing to her spouse. “This is my husband, Alton.”
“Pleased to meet you both. I’m Max Creighton…formerly Major Max Creighton.” He looked Mallory in the eye. “Mrs. Blackwell, I used to work with your father.”
“You did?” She seemed to think for a moment. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember him mentioning your name.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Creighton. “By the time he and I worked together, I was NSA. Plus the project we investigated together was particularly confidential, even by NSA standards.” His eyes took on a melancholy quality. “He was a good man, your father. His death was tragic…and avoidable.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mallory. “He died of a heart attack.”
The major’s eyes darted around the nearly empty patio. “Yes, that’s what the coroner’s report said.”
“Wait,” said Alton. “You’re saying there’s more to it?”
“It does seem odd, don’t you think?” replied Creighton. “A fit guy like Cutter, with no history of heart problems, just dying in his sleep?”
“What are you saying?” said Mallory.
A glimmer of fear crept into the major’s eyes. “There’s more to the story—much more. I just made the discovery myself a few days ago. But I can’t say anything else here.”
“Why?” asked Alton.
“I may have been followed. It’s dangerous for me to be out in public. I’ve already been out longer than I should.” He handed a business card to Mallory. “I live here in Charlotte. Meet me at my house at noon tomorrow. I’ll tell you everything I know.”
CHAPTER 3
From his corner-office window, the Director watched a scruffy, dead bush tumble across the windswept desert. While nightfall continued to produce sweater weather, daytime temperatures soared. At this moment, heatwaves shimmered on the horizon.
The Director pressed a button on his phone’s intercom. “Can you send for Rala Vaziri?”
“Certainly, Director,” came the prompt reply.
He walked back over to the window and resumed his examination of the desolate landscape until he heard a knock on his door. “Enter.”
A striking woman with long legs and piercing eyes entered the room, an exotic beauty who could have materialized from the pages of The Thousand and One Nights. “You asked for me, Director?”
He gestured for her to sit in a chair facing his sprawling mahogany desk. “Yes, Vaziri. We haven’t connected for a few days. How’s the project coming along? Are we on track?”
“I should be asking you. Have you heard from Killjoy?”
“Not a peep,” he replied. “That being the case, are we on schedule?”
She hesitated a moment before answering. “Yes, as good as can be expected.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” said the Director, narrowing his eyes. “What do you mean?”
She crossed her legs and leveled a stare at her manager. “Director, the timing of an R&D project is inherently hard to predict, no? We’re on schedule, but there’s no guarantee we’ll stay that way.”
“Ah, but that’s why you’re in charge of implementation. I know you’ll keep us on track.”
“I appreciate your faith, but we both know how many things can go wrong, including interruptions to the flow of new products from the lab.”
“You leave that to me. You’ll get the products you need.”
“Fair enough,” she replied, “but we have another challenge. We just started field testing. You know how often that slows things down.”
“True, true,” said the Director. He sighed. “As you know, time is of the essence. I’m confident you’ll keep us on track. You must do so.”
She bowed her head. “I’ll do my best.”
“You’ll report back if anything threatens our schedule, won’t you?” asked the Director.
“Of course,” she replied. “You’ll be the first to know.”
CHAPTER 4
Alton pulled to a stop at a red light and stole a glance at his wife. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell your mom what we’re doing?”
Mallory shook her head. “Dad’s death was so hard on her. I don’t want to stoke up any old memories unless we’ve learned something important.”
“Honey,” said Alton. He licked his li
ps, not sure how to proceed. “Your mom wasn’t the only one who took it hard, was she?”
Mallory took a sudden interest in the SUV’s floorboard but said nothing.
“You told me how much it hurt you when your dad died,” continued Alton. Only later had Alton discovered how the event had also rendered Mallory distrustful that the men in her life would stick around.
Alton heard a loud sniff from the passenger side and glanced over. Mallory turned her head away, but he could still see his wife wipe her cheek. He drove in silence for a minute. “If you really want to know what happened to your dad, I’ll travel to the other side of the planet to help you investigate. You know that. I just don’t want whatever we discover to hurt you. You can’t bring him back.”
Mallory reached over and laid her hand on his arm. “Now that I know there may be more to his death than a heart attack, I can’t just let it rest. Even if it hurts me, I can’t live the rest of my life not knowing the truth. That’d eat me up over time.”
Alton nodded. “Then it’s on to Major Creighton’s house?”
“Yes.” She glanced down at her phone. “And it won’t be long. According to the GPS, it’s a little over three miles away.”
A few minutes later, Alton pulled his Explorer into the driveway of a modest yet tidy brick house. “This is it.”
Either the major lived on a strict budget or simply didn’t aspire to invest much in expansive quarters. Despite its cozy size, the house seemed well-maintained. Uniform, evergreen landscaping framed a neatly-trimmed lawn, and a bird-feeder hung from a curved metal rod in the side yard.
The Blackwells exited their SUV and walked along a short sidewalk arcing from the driveway to the front door. They rang the doorbell. After waiting a minute or two, Alton pounded on the door.
Tears of God (The Blackwell Files Book 7) Page 1
