by Abbey, S. C.
MAXIMUS
A Harvey Nolan Thriller
By S. C. Abbey
Your Free Book Is Waiting For You…
Resurrection is an introductory novella to the Harvey Nolan thriller series, of approximately 20,000 words. It is set a couple of years before the events occurring in Maximus and the following books.
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‘And there never was an apple, in Adam's opinion,
that wasn't worth the trouble you got into for eating it.’
Neil Gaiman
Prologue
HER UPPER VERTEBRA creaked as she found her tightened neck muscles unyielding, protesting against her sudden maneuvers. Christina tilted her head forward in an attempt to lessen the tension that was forming at the base of her skull, a dull and inevitable nauseating squeezing of her brain followed. It reminded her of the long hiking weekend trips, on the rugged cliffs of Rocky Peak Ridge during the winter, she used to take with her husband before they got married. She was a tough and adventurous young woman who would not flinch at sleeping in a tent in the wilderness or getting her hands dirty while at it. But this was not the same. She had found herself awaking on a cold hard concrete surface, the chill from the rigid ground permeated deep into her bones. It took her a moment to open her tear-crusted eyelids as she rubbed them with the back of her hands – a small fear started to infest her heart. The still air, wherever she was, smelled horrid of vomit and of fecal matter. She hoped it wasn’t human.
How long have I been out?
As she sat up straight, her back muscles ached from the prolong side reclining posture it had been in on the cold inflexible ground. She immediately regretted her enthusiasm in getting up. She stretched her arms above her head and found them inconveniently unable to reach their usual full stretch as an unrelenting metal cuff pulled firmly on her wrist toward the ground.
What the–
It was dark in the room and the only light which her eyes could register was that of a flickering orange shadow that danced ungracefully on the wall in front of her. Her right arm was free of any restraints while her left – now conscious of the iron cuff – felt heavy. She used her free arm to trace the iron cuff to an equally thick metal chain – her ears now started to register the obvious rattling sound of it.
Oh my god–
The iron restraints along with her aching back and the horrid smell – the grimness of the situation was too overwhelming. She couldn’t think straight. She halfheartedly found a little more courage – unsure of what more bad news had yet to come – and tried to push herself up to a standing position, and it became apparent that another unkindly iron cuff had chosen this moment to present itself on her left ankle, the rattling sound of metal chains equally obdurate. It reminded her of a scene from a movie where the victim had to choose to saw off his own foot to survive. She shivered at that thought and the betrayal of her stimulating mind.
No–
She approached the entrance of her room where her fingers reached out to feel cold metal bars. She felt a scream ascending from the back of her dehydrated vocal cords that never came as a throaty voice made itself known from the back of the barred cell where no light reached.
“Most of them would scream first and think later you know. One of them even had to be sedated for a whole week before she could learn to keep her mouth shut. You aren’t doing too badly so far,” chuckled the woman.
Christina’s heart jumped from the sudden unsolicited judgment and turned to face the back of the room.
“Who’s there? Where am I? What do you want from me? Help me please,” whimpered Christina, her crumbling courage exposed itself through her shaky voice.
The now familiar sound of metal chains rattled as the owner of the raspy voice stood and approached Christina, her face came into the orange glow. Her matted hair was knotted in so many places it seemed like she had gave up combing a long time ago. She was dressed in what used to be a baby blue blouse – now tattered rags, hardly affording her any form of decency. Her feet were bare without shoes and reminiscence of red nail polish could still be seen as crimson specks on her now unkempt toenails. Her eyes looked sunken and dull on a face that had seen better days. She should have been a beautiful creature of the fairer sex, once before. Her face now dirty with soot and grime, revealed no expression as she spoke.
“Please. Do not be afraid of me. My name is Samantha, Samantha Lee. As you can see, I am kind of in the same situation as you are,” Samantha said as she raised her left arm to show a similar metal cuff with an accompanying chain, “we have been abducted, and this is where they keep us.”
Christina’s heart raced in her chest as the austerity of the circumstances hit her, like a deer caught in headlights crossing the highway.
No. It cannot be, please, let these all be a dream–
Christina closed her eyes in a long hard blink, hoping she would see a different scene when her eyes opened again. It didn’t work. “Where is this place? Why me? Why?!” Christina asked. Her eyes now wild with unanswered questions. She tried hard to think about what had happened before she was here.
“Because you are easy on the eyes,” Samantha mumbled with a downcast glance, “And you’ve long blonde hair too, he always had a preference for flaxen hair and light complexion. He told me that himself.”
“But–”
The orange glow began to shine brighter as it seemed like the source of light was approaching the barred room, the flames came into view on a torch held by a bald and hideous man. A deep and angry scar ran down the left side of his cheek, starting from just below the eye all the way down to his jaw. A silver ear ring donned his right ear, a healthy chunk missing from the tip of it. His voice sounded like gravel against the road, likely damaged from too much alcohol.
“Well, well. Looks like sleeping beauty has finally decided to wake up.”
Chapter 1
THE GOLD PLATED minute hand of the antique clock on the wall shifted down the middle of the marker on the face where the roman numerical ‘IV’ stood. Several bright-eyed students were still hurrying into the old lecture hall through the back door, picking seats from the back of the hall when a booming voice announced its unceremonious entrance to the room.
“Settle down ladies, gentlemen. Please, the front row isn’t reserved, spare me from the need to raise my voice, it is after all only the first day of the semester.” The man said as he walked in purposefully and settled at the side of the swinging little door by the wood-paneled front desk with a forced annoyed look which quickly changed into a smile. The man wore a navy checked wool suit and oxblood penny loafers. The undone collar of a white oxford shirt casually peeked from under his grey cashmere sweater. As he turned his back and stretched to write his name on the chalkboard, a vintage 60’s Rolex Submariner in a much newer looking black leather strap appeared, donning his wrist. For the most part of it besides the outdated English collegiate dressing, he looked like an over-aged research student, but a student nonetheless. The boys from the rear seats jeered immaturely at the lecturer’s attempt at humor and a group of girls from nearer to the front giggled, whispering to each other.
The smile never faltered from his face. “Alright, please settle down. I am Professor Harvey Nolan from the Department of Criminology here in Columbia University, and I will be your lecturer for the rest of the semester on the course Basic Psychology of Crime. Seeing that most of you here today are first year students – not you Mike, stop smirking, perhaps you would try harder this year since this is one of you
r core modules, if you wish to practice law someday–” The innocent smirk on one mentioned Mike disappeared as he slowly realized he was in fact the subject of the mockery. His ears started to flush a healthy pink, as the class burst into laughter.
“As I was saying, since most of you are freshmen, I must say it is extremely lucky of us to be allocated this lecture hall. Do not be fooled by the tattered chalkboards behind me. Can anybody tell me, what is the significance of this room 309 in the Havemeyer Hall?” Inquired the handsome professor.
“Most of the things here belong in a museum?” A boy answered, he had two silver piercings on his left ear glinted under the white fluorescent tubes with a cap worn backwards. His mischievous grin glinted equally. The class burst into laughter once again.
The class’s joker. “Identify yourself before speaking up in class, your name please?” Asked Harvey.
“The name’s Francis. Francis White,” answered the boy as he leaned back further into his seat, his hands supported the back of his neck.
“Thank you for your humor on an otherwise uneventful Tuesday morning Francis, though you might be technically right – now would someone else like a more educated guess?” Said Harvey.
“Sir, Janine Orkin. This hall is located in Havemeyer Hall, one of the six original buildings on Columbia’s Morningside Heights Campus, and this particular room is more than one hundred years old,” said a girl sitting on the second row. She adjusted the spectacle frame that perched on her perky nose.
The teacher’s pet. “Excellent Janine, ten points for Gryffindor – okay bad joke aside – as mentioned by Janine, this room, was designed by Charles McKim – of McKim, Mead, and White – and built between 1896 and 1898. And as you all should know from orientation, six individuals who researched in Havemeyer went on to win the Nobel Peace Prize–”
“You were one of them, weren’t you? Sorry for interrupting sir, I cannot help but noticed the name of the author on our text book coincides with yours and it says here under the author page that the author is one of the youngest recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize, for Criminology on the study of the connection between childhood and the tendency of one becoming a criminal–” exclaimed one of the girls who was giggling earlier, “–sorry, Linda Holt.”
Harvey sighed as he planned to ignore Miss Holt and looked down to his watch, as if he was in a hurry. He opened the prescribed textbook and laid it on the wooden desk before looking up at Linda again.
“Thank you Linda, for the unnecessary trivia. Enough of history for today, now class I would like you all to turn to page 53, Psychology of Victimhood, and can anybody tell me, why do victims most easily fall to crime in situations where the criminal is somebody they know–”
Chapter 2
DETECTIVE GARETT FROST sighed heavily as he opened the eighth crime report he looked at today in his office, a tower of folders of unread reports sat unsympathetically on the left side of his white computer desk.
I did not sign up for this.
His office – a modest space of 100 square feet, austere white painted walls, a white office desk, and 2 black roller chairs placed messily in front of it.
All these paperwork would be the death of me–
On one side his desk, a large green notice board hung nail-driven on the white wall, filled with photographs and newspaper articles, on the other, a small indoor palm tree laid withered and dying in its miserably small terracotta pot.
Another death by drug overdose this month.
It was 3.00 p.m. in the afternoon and Garett hadn’t felt that he had done enough work to warrant a lunch break.
Looks like I’ll be pulling an all-nighter again today, and its only Tuesday. I hate Tuesdays–
A plump man with an undiscerning air entered the office without knocking on the door. “Sir, looks like we have another missing person case–” said the FBI agent.
“–Darrow, for the umpteenth time, if the door’s closed, it means you have to knock on it and wait for me to give you permission before entering. Isn’t it common sense and manners, why would I otherwise close the door for?” Frost barked at Special Agent Darrow.
“Sorry boss–” Agent Darrow said. He smiled from ear to ear, embarrassed as he attempted to change the subject, “–but this looked interesting. I thought you might want to take a look at it before I follow up and question some folks.”
“Get out of here–” replied Frost. “Leave that thing on my desk.”
“Affirmative boss. By the way, would you like to grab a bite sir? The boys seemed to have conveniently forgotten to ask me again.” Agent Darrow complained as he lingered at the doorway of the office.
“I said, get out of here Darrow–” Frost repeated, emphasizing every word with a pause in between them without looking up, clearly getting peeved by the second. The door to his office slammed close without another word.
Sigh–
The last time he felt like he hated his job was yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that day. It has been 3 years since FBI Detective Frost got promoted to a supervisory role in the department, leading a small team of 4 special agents – he always outwardly wondered what so special about them – in charge of investigating missing persons and kidnapping cases. The supervisory role has proven to be more paperwork than field work so far, as most missing investigations usually come to stand still without meaningful conclusions, or the victims simply reappear themselves after a while, and most kidnapping cases end up cold in the store – the U.S. of America is a huge place after all. Frost found himself thinking about his past glorified days in the homicide team when he was still a fresh-eyed field agent these days more often than not. He lamented the lack of action in his current post but did not find it in his heart to wish for more serious and ‘interesting’ cases to come his way – peoples’ life were at stake after all, crime isn’t a game or just a puzzle to solve.
Another missing person case.
He found himself drawn to the case that Agent Darrow had mentioned and flipped open the crime folder to find a full color photograph.
Pretty. Car’s missing, wallet’s missing. Better not be another eloping couple, I’ve had enough of those. Okay, maybe not. Husband just passed away one month ago. Last meeting was with a male colleague whom she regularly meets after husband’s passing, Cause of death: car accident. Benefitted from a life insurance pay out of half a million dollars. Insurance fraud, perhaps? Snort.
Frost rubbed his temples in an attempt to relieve the tension building up between his eyes. He carelessly pictured the missing strawberry blonde girl in Vegas, happily spending all her money on the craps table and jackpot machines.
I wouldn’t be surprised if I got it right.
He chuckled at the thought of it, a rare grin donned his face. It was evident why he did not smile often. His stomach protested loudly for the prolonged lack of food and the familiar frown was back on his face. He could use a lunch break after all. He brushed away his skepticism and picked up the folder before heading toward the entrance of the office.
The door swung open angrily and a bellowing voice filled the open office area. “Darrow, on your feet. Time for real work. And I’m starving. Stop eating those sugared peanuts. Where was that hotdog stand you were swooning over on Upper Manhattan?”
Chapter 3
HARVEY STROLLED LEISURELY out of Havemeyer Hall and habitually turned left onto 116th street toward Amsterdam Avenue after his last lecture for the day, walking with a deep sated feeling back to his office. He always felt like this after a long day of lectures. Two rows of London Plane trees flanked the cemented street, separating the University’s Student Service Center and the Office of Undergraduate Admissions. Though the trees were bare of beautiful colored leaves more prevalent in fall, Harvey always preferred the street during winter where the trees would be decorated with fairy lights that reminded him Christmas was not far away. He admired the fairy lights as he slowed his pace on the cobblestone walkway, a bicycle rode past him, una
mused by the sights Harvey cared so much for. He crossed Amsterdam Avenue intending to enter his office building but was distracted by the sight of an accustomed hotdog stand. He stopped by the hotdog stand round about the corner of the entrance of his office building and dug for some change to get a quick bite. He never missed an opportunity to taste one of New York’s finest hotdogs – in his humble opinion – whenever fate see it fit for him to cross paths with said hotdog stand. The Mexican owner was in his trademark football jersey, with a down jacket this time of the year.
“The usual?” The hotdog stand owner asked. He looked up from scoring some hotdogs and his brows lifted at the recognition of his regular customer.
“Yes please, extra relish, no ketchup,” replied Harvey. His salivary glands woke up at the anticipation of what is to come.
“I’ll have to start charging you for the extras one of these days,” the Mexican street vendor said as he spooned heaps full of relish onto Harvey’s order. His expression did not change but the humor was not lost on Harvey.
Harvey wolfed down his evening snack as he made his way into the University office building, he barely managed to contain all the food in his mouth while balancing all the toppings on his hotdog. His thoughts steered toward the exclamation Miss Holt had made during class earlier. It was as if life was on rewind every time someone manages to spot this little achievement of his. Life in academia had always been what Harvey wanted it to be – quiet, uneventful, and intellectually fulfilling. He had always been extremely gifted intellectually, and find it somewhat unchallenging yet fulfilling to teach. He never wanted fame or exposure in any manner, and disliked the remote possibility of surprises – or at least that’s what he pictured himself to be. He also never felt the need for social connections besides the occasional co-worker meal and student interactions. Everything was within his expectations and control, until the Nobel Prize which came along with unwanted attention and fame. Being one of the youngest full professors in an Ivy League University was bad enough, but the Nobel Prize was another level all together. He couldn’t say no to a Nobel Prize, could he?
