BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense)

by John W. Mefford

  “Quick. Move faster. Please!” I begged.

  The rabbi stepped through the door. When I turned my head back to the sanctuary, I only saw one more person, Yosef, but he was moving in the opposite direction, his body swaying left and right as his legs took tiny steps.

  “What are you doing? Where are you going?” My voice sounded impatient, angry even, as a foreboding, tingling sensation permeated my body.

  “I forgot someone very important,” he yelled with his back to me while holding his cane like a staff.

  Glancing back outside, I watched people clump together, and I noticed a black and white pull up. “Yosef, we’ve got to get out of here!” I yelled through cupped hands, my voice rumbling in the empty sanctuary.

  He mumbled something indecipherable.

  “Dammit!” Gritting my teeth, I pushed off one foot and ran up the aisle as Yosef disappeared beyond through a doorway to the right. A raised platform at the front of the sanctuary boasted something that resembled an ark, Indiana Jones style, a single beam from high above casting a cone of light below. The ark doors and curtains were decorated with crowns, Hebrew phrases, and other symbols.

  Rambling through the door, I tweaked my sore shoulder, then caught sight of Yosef rounding a corner.

  “Yosef!”

  My brain could feel each second tick away, and I wondered if we were playing Russian roulette with our lives.

  Twenty quick paces, and I caught up with the man who I thought couldn’t move quickly, just entering a room.

  “Sandy,” he called out, his arms splayed wide, just as I noticed the sign on the door: Rabbi’s Quarters.

  The golden Lab sat on top of a desk, his lively tail flapping loose papers off the surface.

  “I can’t go anywhere without Sandy,” Yosef declared while he rubbed her ears.

  Ignoring his untimely pet commitment, I raced over and unclipped Sandy’s leash from a drawer pull.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Out of the office in far too many seconds, I held Sandy’s leash and jogged next to Yosef, cajoling him to move faster than Usain Bolt. Who was I kidding?

  Without getting into a debate, I leaned over and picked up my new Yiddish friend; I just hoped, prayed even, the friendship would last a few more minutes.

  “What in the—” he said, which caught me off guard.

  Pushing out audible breaths, I kicked open the door into the sanctuary, not a soul in sight. Sandy trotted next to me like a good soldier, unfazed and perhaps unknowing of the tragedy that could consume us at any moment. Pain throbbed in my shoulder, and Yosef bounced against my sensitive chest wounds, but none of it mattered. I had to get us outside before the explosion—unless I’d been wrong about all of this.

  Fifty feet and closing, I could see a splinter of light between the slightly opened door just ahead.

  At twenty-five feet, for some unknown reason I saw images of Samantha and Eva, each one in their own way the love of my life. My two girls. I loved them, even if I didn’t want to admit that type of bond with Eva. I could hear Samantha’s infectious laughter, her baby teeth looking like a carved pumpkin. Another memory of Christmas morning with little Samantha plowing through wrapping paper with limitless excitement, her voice carrying pure joy that a fat man in a red suit thought she was the cutest, nicest girl in the world. My next recollection: Eva’s deep-brown eyes, long eyelashes, constantly teasing me with lasers of love. Or something close to it.

  Rejecting the notion that I wouldn’t see my two girls again, I felt a ball of emotion building in my chest just before contacting the door handle. I wanted to scream out loud, shouting our survival.

  But just as I expected to hear my voice, the world as I know it ceased to exist. By some invisible force, my body lifted off the floor just as I hit the door. The next feeling I had was flying through the air, Sandy’s leash yanking my hand, the weight of Yosef non-existent. A blast of heat enveloped me. It felt like skin was being peeled off my face, and then I crashed to the hard ground, my body buckling from the unforgiving impact.

  A grunting breath escaped my lips, then a split-second later Yosef’s body slammed into my chest, bouncing left onto the ground. Then the leash pulled out of my hand.

  Twisting across the ground, I saw someone standing over me, a face, lips moving, but no sound. He disappeared. A piercing ring felt like it emanated from my inner core, and I covered my ears, thinking I could snuff it out. Blinking my eyes, I rolled over and saw Yosef on his side, facing the other direction, people running up to him. Sandy licked at his face, but his limbs only moved slightly.

  Flexing my jaw to try to regain my hearing, the scene finally became more real. Words were impossible to make sense of, but I heard voices. I felt my chest rise and fall, thankful I could hear anything besides the mind-numbing ring, which was still present, but not as prevalent.

  Attempting to sit up, I instinctively stretched my bad shoulder. Something wasn’t right. It felt like I’d been stabbed, or worse.

  Suddenly, a scream. I looked up and a woman was staring right me, hands trembling then pointing.

  “Booker, can you hear me?”

  Shifting my eyes left, I saw Eva drop to one knee.

  I nodded, but I’m not sure of my facial expression. Murky clouds still hovered in my mind, as did the ever-present ringing.

  “You’ve been injured,” she said very slowly so I could understand her, and I nodded with each word.

  “I love you,” I said, not thinking, just recalling those final thoughts and pictures before the explosion blew us out the door.

  Pausing, she said, “I love you too.”

  We hadn’t uttered those words to each other in years. I wondered if she truly meant it, and then I wondered if I’d feel the same days for now.

  “Move your shoulder,” I thought she said.

  Following her orders, I shifted my arm in a circle.

  “No, no!” She wagged a finger six inches from my eyes, her other hand bracing my good shoulder. “I said don’t move your shoulder.”

  More oxygen reached my brain, allowing me to take in more information and assess my pain level. My shoulder hurt like hell, and I had a headache—the worst hangover ever.

  Eva was a pro, trying to remain calm, in control. Directing fellow officers as they arrived at the scene, the woman with the temper of a lion still exhibited a caring touch with each civilian, me included. And my heart pumped a little faster.

  Moments later, paramedics surrounded me, one providing a summary of my injury. “We can’t remove the shrapnel. Looks like at least one nail is stuck in your shoulder. We’ve stopped the bleeding, but you’re headed to Parkland to get checked out.”

  I’d be okay, I knew. Turning my head side to side, I leaned up on an elbow, flipping off an oxygen mask.

  “Yosef. Yosef, where are you?”

  Eyes moved, shoulders shrugged. Where did Eva go? She would know, she would find out.

  Eva appeared at my side as they loaded me onto a gurney.

  “Where’s Yosef?”

  “Who?”

  “The little Jewish man that I carried out. Is he okay?”

  Eva and the hordes of people surrounding me separated. I heard a bark, then Yosef appeared at my side, a bandage across his forehead, his arm in a sling. He had a big smile on his face.

  “I had a good idea we’d be okay. It’s called faith in you know who.” His eyes and a finger pointed toward the sky.

  Reaching out, he grabbed my hand and held it tight. I held his hand tighter.

  25

  “Give me three pulled porks with coleslaw, a chopped brisket with jalapenos, three sides of barbeque beans. No, make that four sides of barbeque beans, a side of barbeque sauce. Oh, take off the coleslaw on one of the pulled porks and add in some of those pickled onions.”

  He made his best attempt at drowning out the country twang of the blond bimbo rattling off her order just outside his metallic truck, parked across the street from the Dallas Conv
ention Center. Her ample chest nestled against the side of his truck, obscuring his sign: Bobby’s Bombastic BBQ. If that sign were a living creature, it would have suffocated from her helium-filled jugs.

  Wiping his brow with the arm of his grease-spotted white T-shirt, he returned to the small flat screen in the far corner, a satellite feed of the national news flashing a breaking news bulletin. He licked his lips with anticipation.

  Headline: 5 Dead, 32 Injured in Three Dallas Bomb Attacks.

  He jumped up and down, clapping his hands like he’d just won the lottery.

  Scrawling across the bottom of the screen, he read that the Dallas mayor and police chief assure the public that the city is safe.

  “Are they fucking crazy?”

  “Excuuuuse me?”

  He’d almost forgotten about the lady and her order. “Sorry, I wasn’t talking to you.”

  “Well, who on God’s green earth are you talking to then?”

  Huffing out an annoyed breath, he ignored her pestering questions and scrambled to assemble her order, uncertain if he’d get it right. Frankly, he didn’t care. This gig had only a minimal connection to his passion, or his fate. Scooping up a spoonful of jalapenos, he paused. Don’t they call that serendipity?

  “The jalapenos don’t go on the pulled pork!”

  Snapping out of his daze, his eyes lifted up to see her contorted face, as the truck’s spotlight bounced off her milky-white cleavage begging for a ladle of smoking hot barbeque sauce. He withheld the urge.

  “I hear you, miss.” Blindly tossing the soiled sandwich in the trash behind him, he started over, moving quickly to amass her order, but with little zest.

  Business had been sporadic all day, then it dropped to a near standstill following reports of not one, not two, but three bomb blasts. Despite working out of a heated metal box, he felt goose bumps form on his arms.

  Streets were nearly abandoned, outside of a few remaining football fans who falsely believed they were immune to crime, and people like…

  “What’s your name, miss?”

  “Uh, Morgan. Whyyyy?”

  Right, like Morgan. There were two thousand other “Morgans” in the one-million-square-foot monstrosity across the street, who’d traveled from across the country to celebrate a new line of cosmetics to push through their pyramid structure. He could hear them oohing and ahhing about how this product instantly made women look more vivacious, dropping their appearance by ten years. It was simply the “best ever.” Their giggles and self-centered perspectives literally made him want to vomit.

  Maybe that would be another good use of Morgan’s cleavage—vomit trough.

  Briefly, he remembered a contingent of fake blond nurses huddled at their station, making crass jokes about patients while cramming their faces full of chocolate. And when he asked one to bring ice chips to the room, one nurse broke out in laughter, saying her shift had just ended. He might as well have asked her to give him a blow job in the middle of the hallway.

  “You have Alzheimer’s or somethin’?” Morgan blurted out.

  That clueless drawl made his eyes want to pop out, then he looked down and noticed his fist, white-knuckled, as brisket oozed between his fingers.

  “I, uh…” Wiping his greasy hands on his T-shirt and apron, his mind darted around, unable to focus on the task at hand. Fix the woman her food, he told himself over and over again.

  “That’s not sanitary,” she said, backing up a step like he had a disease.

  Maybe he did.

  “I’m not going to eat food that you squeezed like it’s Play-Doh. That’s disgusting! I want to see your health inspection certificate.”

  He looked straight at her, both of her hands planted on hips. She wasn’t going to budge until he rectified the situation.

  “Look, I’m putting your food together. It will take me just a couple of minutes, and then you can take your food across the street and share it with your other bimbos.”

  Did he just say that?

  “Well, I have never—”

  Fumbling with buns and plates, the man began to sweat, realizing he’d let his guard down, and he began to wonder if his thoughts and goals would be just as easily exposed. Did he trust himself to pull this off?

  “Here’s the first sandwich right here.” He attempted a cheery voice for a change.

  “I’m not touching that food until you wash your hands and show me your—”

  “Is there a problem here?” asked a uniformed cop, gun in holster, shades clinging to his forehead, even though the sun had set hours ago.

  “Well, Mister…”

  She leaned closer to the officer, whose jaw popped open while ogling the women’s chest from two feet away.

  “Mister K. Young,” she finished.

  He tipped his hat. “Officer Kenny Young at your service.”

  What a douche, the man thought but dared not say.

  “I think this man has some type of freaky fetish with the food he’s makin’,” she said, her country voice now cracking.

  Was she trying to make herself cry? What a pair.

  The officer plodded over, removed his hat, and leaned in toward the BBQ truck order window.

  “Mmm. That smells mighty tasty.” The officer winked at the man, whispering a question his way. “What’s your name?”

  “Bob, of course,” the man said, tapping the ladle on the metal sign.

  A delayed response, then the officer leaned back and noticed the sign. He gave the man an I-got-this nod.

  Putting his hand on the woman’s arm, he said, “I can vouch for Bob here. His barbeque is some of the best I’ve ever tasted. He’s been around for years.” The officer glanced back at “Bob.”

  The woman frowned. “Well, okay. I didn’t know.”

  The man took the opportunity to close this one out.

  “Here you go, your full order. And just because I made you feel uncomfortable, it’s on the house.”

  “Why, thank you.” She pulled the bags off the miniature counter and put her nose in one, her eyes closing from the tangy aroma. “And thank you for coming to my rescue, Officer Young.”

  She tiptoed across the street, the officer watching every boob jiggle he could garner. Just as he turned around, the man held out a white bag, a grease mark already forming on the bottom.

  “I just wanted to tell you thanks, officer. I’m so glad we have a police force that exercises such calm under pressure.”

  “Uh, right. I wasn’t looking for a freebie or anything.”

  “I know,” the man said with a fake, grateful shake of his head. “It’s the least I can do for the men and women in blue.”

  “We need to build trust in our community, and I’m just trying to make that happen one person at a time, one day at a time. Not easy when there’s a bunch of crazy people out there blowing up buildings. The city has taken a few punches, but so far we’re holding up pretty well. I think some naysayers expected our fair city to turn into bedlam. Not Dallas.”

  “Indeed. Thanks again,” the man said.

  “Have a good day.” The officer tipped his hat and walked away, his hand already digging in the bag.

  The man looked both directions, then lowered a screen. Closed.

  Free and clear from the distraction of customers, something gnawed at the back of his mind as he turned his attention to the news. Calmly removing a box off a swivel chair, he sat down.

  “New video has just been obtained by CNN. Picking up the feed from local ABC station, WFAA, we have an amazing piece of footage that just came in from the site of the third bombing today.”

  The man sat up, his heart pounding for at least two reasons.

  “What you see here is a synagogue off Bryan and Skillman in East Dallas. People are running outside, everyone in fear of another explosion. It’s hard to detect, but a man is standing at the door, the one in the brown shirt, urging and ushering people out the door. But that’s not the amazing part.”

  A wedge formed be
tween the man’s eyes. He bit his upper lip, then his tongue played with his thin mustache.

  “As you can see, the rabbi hurries out the door right here. But the man in the brown shirt disappears back into the building. People move farther away from the building, but you can hear voices asking where he went.”

  The anchor appeared on the monitor, the video paused in a small screen next to him. He held a pen in one hand, his other hand hovering over a laptop like he was launching a NASA rocket.

  “What you are about to see could be disturbing for some viewers. We encourage adults to be cautious in allowing their young kids to watch.”

  The video then took over the entire screen. “The crowd grows more worried as each second passes. A couple of folks start walking back to the door, but they’re pulled away by others. Keep your eyes on the door.”

  A sudden blast, the door flying off its hinges.

  The man’s head pops back, like he’s in the first row of a three-D movie. Where’s the popcorn?

  Through gray, lingering smoke, two men lay on the ground next to each other, shock and anguish washing over their faces. A dog appeared next to the older man and nudged him with his nose. People rushed to their sides, including a female officer.

  The camera honed in on the younger man who wore the brown shirt. Rolling on the ground, holding hands against the side of his head, the man appeared disoriented.

  “A foreign object is sticking out of his shoulder. According to people at the scene, this shrapnel from the explosion, at least one nail buried in the man’s skin.”

  Blood.

  Pain.

  The man felt his breathing pattern pick up. Mixing in past images of blood and pain, he was both thrilled and disgusted. Thrilled at watching his vision come to fruition, yet disgusted at the world for making him do it.

  He shrugged. There was no other way.

  The screen jumped to another set of footage, the older man, bandaged, beaten up, but looking remarkably strong. Defiant.

  “I had a good idea we’d be okay. It’s called faith in you know who,” the old man was saying, pointing a finger up to the sky.