Serenity Stalked
A Shelby Alexander Thriller
Craig A. Hart
Sweatshoppe Publications
Copyright © 2017 by Craig A. Hart
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
PROMO
Also by Craig A. Hart
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
PROMO
A Serenity Avenged Sneak Peek
Thank you for picking up Serenity Stalked!
If you’re interested in reading more of my work, you can get a book from my other series, the SpyCo Thrillers, absolutely free.
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Also by Craig A. Hart
THE SHELBY ALEXANDER SERIES
Serenity
Serenity Stalked
Serenity Avenged
Serenity Submerged
THE SPYCO NOVELLA THRILLERS
Assignment: Athens
Assignment: Paris
Assignment: Istanbul
Assignment: Sydney (Coming Soon)
1
Concealed by darkness, Smith watched the couple through their large dining room window. The drama played out before him as if the glass was a television screen. He couldn’t hear words, but body language made it clear it was not a relaxed evening in the household. They sat at the table with stiff backs and tense shoulders, each movement forceful and decisive. The man’s jaw clenched and unclenched; a vein popped along the side of his forehead. The woman’s tight face featured lips held thin and straight. Plates of food sat before them, but neither had taken a bite in the last five minutes. They stirred the food around the plates with their forks. At one point, the man stabbed a portion of meat and twisted.
The woman spoke. Smith tried to read her lips. Something about “the baby.” The man brought his fist down on the table with enough force that Smith heard the impact from outside. The woman jumped to her feet and then paused and cocked her head as if listening. She looked at the man and said something like “Look what you’ve done” before stalking from the room, arms swinging stiffly at her sides. The man jabbed his middle finger at the woman’s departing back.
Smith listened and heard the thin cry of a baby. So that was it. The man had awakened the baby. Smith could understand the woman’s frustration. He hated the sound of a crying baby—the most grating noise on earth. But it was supposed to be that way. If babies weren’t so annoying, they’d be too easy to ignore. Baby birds learned the mother fed the loudest first; human babies likely had the same instinct.
The couple had fought every night this week except for one. He knew, because he’d been watching them. The one night they didn’t fight, they got drunk and fucked on the dining room floor. Smith wondered if they might not fight so much if they fucked more often. But he was no marriage counselor. He’d never married. In fact, he rarely had sexual urges at all. And when he did, they were relieved through masturbation. He had little time for sex. His hobbies lay elsewhere.
Smith felt in his jacket for the knife stuck in its leather sheath. It pressed flat against his chest, solid and comforting, waiting. He burned with the urge. It had started a month ago, but he had taken time to find victims and learn their lives.
He never killed out of anger. He chose victims from the vast pool of anonymous people who moved around him every day. If he interacted with them in the outside world, they were crossed off his list. He smiled, thinking how odd that living next door to a killer was safer than being across town. Don’t shit where you eat.
The frequency of his killings depended on the urge to kill. And the frequency varied; it was not something he could control. Sometimes it was a week, sometimes a month. And once, in a surreal period of peace and normality, an entire year passed without a killing. He had noticed of late, however, the periods between killings were becoming shorter, to the point where he was sensing the need to deny himself. In the past, this had not been an issue. But too many killings would be dangerous. He liked a sense of danger but didn’t wish to be foolhardy. Yet denying himself a kill worried him; he’d never faced this and was unsure how it would affect him.
This explained his excitement when he’d noticed the couple. They had been out jogging and their attractiveness struck him like an ad for America. The man, tall but brawny, with a full head of dark hair and a square jaw. The woman, lithe but well proportioned, with full breasts, classic features, and blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. The perfect couple. So perfect they attracted his attention. It wasn’t until he’d watched them that he realized it was all just for show.
He became intrigued, then obsessed. Every night, he took up position in the hedgerow along the property line of the house and observed them. In the morning, he parked a little way down the street and noted their schedule. It was always the same. The man left for work at 7:50 a.m. The woman stayed home with the baby. On Mondays, the woman attended a mothers’ yoga class that provided daycare. On Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, another woman, a middle-aged Hispanic, arrived and stayed a few hours. A nanny or babysitter. On Fridays, nothing at all happened, except the man came home early, changed clothes, and left again, usually going to a sports bar to flirt with waitresses and bullshit with friends. The couple never went out at night and nowhere together, except for Sunday morning church. They didn’t seem religious to Smith, but he assumed they were maintaining appearances. It was a small town.
The dependability of the schedule pleased Smith and made them even better candidates. Targets with erratic schedules were dangerous and he had more than once dismissed someone because of it.
The woman reappeared, holding the baby, and sat down at her seat. She rocked back and forth. Her lips moved and Smith made out a few words from “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” She cast angry glances toward the man, and Smith knew what was happening. “See what a good parent I am?” she was suggesting. “Unlike you.” Smith enjoyed watching people play out their lives, even though the more he saw, the more disgusted he felt. Humans were stupid creatures, petty and vindictive. They so easily lost sight of the important things. Smith liked to think they remembered what was important and regretted their foolishness for a moment—the moment before they died.
2
“Come on, Fritz. You’ve been holding on to that car for years. It’s time to let it go.” Shelby Alexander held his breath. He’d been trying for some time to get his friend to relinquish control of his 1972 Renault 8. So far with no success, but Shelby sensed Fritz was wavering.
“I dunno, Shel. That was my old man’s car. It’s the only thing left of his I own.”
“I thought you didn’t like your dad.”
“He was a dick. But he left me a classic car.”
“It wasn’t classic when he left it to you. You’re the one who has ke
pt it maintained all these years.”
“Yeah, but still. It’s my, what you say, legacy.”
“You’re going to sell me that car one of these days. You know that, right?”
“I don’t know any such thing. But if you’d stop being such a cheap bastard, you’d improve your odds.”
“I’m offering a fair price.”
“You’re takin me to the cleaners!”
“The hell I am. You never drive it anyway.”
“It gives the campground character. The tourists are always commenting on it.”
“Right, because you attract the classy element.”
“Watch you say about my campground. I could, what you say, ban you for life.”
“Is that a promise?”
Fritz growled and the phone went dead. Shelby shook his head, grinning. Fritz had the disposition of a grizzly with a toothache, and he and Shelby were good enough friends that he didn’t have to hide it. Shelby dropped his phone onto the counter and decided to make coffee.
Shelby placed his coffee mug under the spout of his single-serving coffee maker and pressed the flashing blue button. His daughter, Leslie, had purchased the item as a gift, against his wishes, to keep him from drinking too much coffee. She had thought his frugality would keep Shelby from drinking more than a cup a day, given the price of the individual pods, but the machine had grown on him. He felt conflicted by his increasing fondness of the device. He resented the expense and considered the pods wasteful and harmful to the environment. But it was convenient and he enjoyed turning the tables on Leslie, given her self-appointment as his medical watchdog.
There was at least one point every year at which he questioned the wisdom of moving back to the northern part of Michigan’s Lower Peninsula. He had reached that point and it was directly related, as usual, to winter’s stubborn refusal to admit defeat. Shelby wasn’t looking forward to tourists plaguing the area during the summer months, but he was ready to do some fishing not requiring an icepick and yearned for the warm nights alive with the call of insects: the things that reminded him of the positive aspects of his childhood.
Shelby stood at his kitchen window and drank his coffee. The sky was turning gray with dawn. There would be no lovely sunrise this morning. It was overcast and the weather gurus were calling for snow. Damn them. They were only ever correct when it came to bad news. He was not one of those northern snow haters—the sort who complained about winter weather while refusing to move to a more favorable climate—but this winter had been long. Also, there had been a recent thaw that raised his hopes of spring. He should have known better. He’d lived in the area for the last ten years and grown up not far from where he now lived, in the town of Serenity; he knew how the seasons worked up here. Northerners have short memories when it comes to winter and they always hope for, but rarely receive, the elusive early spring.
He was still surprised when he thought about living in this part of Michigan. He had moved away as soon as he came of age, overcome with the desire young men experience to put their past behind them and make their own mark on the world. True, his own childhood had been more worthy of abandonment than most, but his urge to flee the nest existed even apart from that fact. He pursued his dream of becoming a professional boxer but had his career ended by the early onset of arthritis in his hands and a related but no less crushing defeat in a highly publicized bout. He had lost a lot of people a lot of money and he knew, even as he was being helped to his dressing room, his run was over. As he’d grown older, the pull of his roots became ever stronger and after his marriage to Helen fell apart, he found comfort in the old things and relished the slower pace of life afforded here. He still credited nature with getting him through difficult times, including some of the years during which Leslie had refused to speak to him, a result of Helen’s selfish use of their daughter as a therapist. A daughter should never hear the things about her father Leslie heard, some true and some not. But Helen had been deeply hurt by the divorce—a lingering hurt—and by the time she came to her senses and began to realize the damage she was doing, it was too late. Over time, Shelby had rebuilt his relationship with Leslie, who matured and understood more about the world and how it worked, but the reconciliation had been slow. At least she now cared about his health. That was something.
The ringing of his cell interrupted his reverie. It was a number he didn’t recognize. Probably a telemarketer. It was insane they were now calling cellphones. There’d been a day when having a mobile phone was a way to avoid being hassled. Now they could find you anywhere. Shelby was of the opinion that people who tried to cold sell over the phone were, as Douglas Adams said, “a bunch of mindless jerks who will be the first against the wall when the revolution comes.”
“Whatever it is, I don’t want it,” he answered.
“I think this is the first time you’ve ever turned me down,” a sultry voice said. “Showing your age?”
“Carly?”
“I got a new number.”
“I thought you were someone calling up to scam a senior citizen.”
“You’re not a senior yet.”
“I’m almost sixty.”
“That doesn’t make you senior.”
“It does, according to McDonald’s. I’ve been getting cheap coffee there for years. And let’s not forget AARP.”
“AARP is only interested in broadening their base to strengthen their lobbying power.”
“Look at you, being all jaded and politically savvy. I qualify for almost every senior discount out there.”
“That’s because you look like you’re eighty.”
Shelby scoffed. “You do realize every time you ding me about my age, you’re dinging yourself. You’re the young woman hanging around the old geezer. I’m doing what people would expect. You, though…you have some explaining to do, young lady.”
“Maybe you’re good in bed.”
“This is true.”
“Or maybe I have daddy issues.”
“Am I terrible for taking advantage of your vulnerabilities?”
“Would it stop you if you were?”
“Not likely.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t ask.”
“Deal. What the hell do you want anyway, besides testing out your new phone number? And what was wrong with your old number?”
“Nothing was wrong with the old number, except too many people had it.”
“Too popular, are you?”
“With the wrong people.”
“In trouble?”
“Nothing serious. Mostly an old boyfriend who can’t move on. And my parents.”
“Your parents don’t have your new number?”
“No. Nor shall they.”
“As the parent of a daughter, I must protest,” Shelby said.
“You shouldn’t. Their tirades against you are part of the reason I’m not speaking to them anymore.”
“Still…I’ve been there. They’re worried about you. I think you’ll be sorry if you don’t maintain a relationship.”
“I haven’t disowned them, Shelby. I’m taking a break. They need to recognize boundaries. If it’s not about you, then it’s about my career—or lack thereof. They’re convinced I should have gone to med school.” Carly heaved a sigh. “Anyway, I didn’t call to talk about my parents.”
“What then?”
“It’s the old boyfriend.”
“Yay, my favorite subject.”
“Don’t feel threatened. It was more about texting. Sexting, really. All day, sometimes at night. Anytime his wife wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing.”
“So he’s married.”
“Didn’t I say so?”
“Jesus, kid. Don’t bite my head off. I’m trying to get on the same page with you.”
“Sorry. I’m a little…upset by this.”
“Was he married when he was your boyfriend?”
“For part of it. But I didn’t know about it until late in our relationship. It was
why I put an end to it.”
“Noble of you.”
“I’m not a saint, asshole. I didn’t want to let him go, but I knew if he’d leave his wife for me, he could easily leave me for someone else.”
“So what brought him back around to you?”
“According to his texts, things aren’t going well. They’ve had a baby and the stress is getting to him. His wife is always on his case about doing more around the house. He thinks she’s depressed.”
“Postpartum?”
“I suppose. I suppose he thinks things would have been better with me.”
“And would they?”
“Are you kidding me? James always wanted kids and you know me. I’d be the worst fucking mother ever.”
“The worst fucking mother ever. That should be on a bumper sticker. So the boyfriend...James, is it?”
“Yes. James Blair.”
“I’ve heard the name.”
“High school star quarterback and son of John Blair.”
“The construction tycoon.”
“You got it. He’s responsible for bringing a lot of tourism to the area. Or, at least, building the hotels housing the tourists and the restaurants feeding them.”
“I’m happy to know who to blame. Although I suppose tourists are the reason Serenity hasn’t gone bankrupt and blown away in a blizzard. So what does this all have to do with me?”
“I want you to talk to him.”
Shelby groaned. “You must be kidding.”
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