Vanessa flipped on the lights. The sight of a parcel with a return address from New York made her heart sink. The package was sitting on a small table in the foyer where Sam had stacked the mail. Vanessa carried it into the living room. She switched on the lamp beside the sofa and sat down to the groan of aged springs, placing the package on top of the magazines and days-old newspapers that littered her coffee table. She stared at the package for a minute before ripping off the brown paper wrapper. A letter lay on top of her manuscript, covering the title and her assertion of authorship. Vanessa hesitated before picking up the letter. It was signed by an editor at Parthenon Press who was supposed to be open to new ideas and was not afraid to challenge the establishment. He had published a number of controversial exposes of government cover-ups. A book of his about a Marine who’d blown the whistle on a training maneuver that had left two recruits dead had just fallen off the best-seller list.
Dear Ms. Kohler: I read Phantoms with great interest. Unfortunately, I have decided that your book is not right for Parthenon Press. I wish you the best of luck placing your manuscript. Yours truly, Walter Randolph
Vanessa squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to fling the manuscript across the room and break things. She fought to keep her rage in check and tried to dissipate her hostile energy by pacing the worn carpet that covered her hardwood floor. Something was going on here. It could be as simple as the fact that her press credentials were from Exposed instead of The New York Times. Of course, that level of credibility was closed to her. No reputable paper was going to hire someone with her history. But Vanessa was certain that something darker was at work.
Vanessa was a superb researcher and had ferreted out Walter Randolph’s unlisted home phone number as part of her background check on the editor when she was deciding to whom she would send her book. Vanessa dialed a number in Connecticut and waited while the phone rang several times.
“Hello,” answered a voice groggy with sleep.
“Walter Randolph?”
“Who is this?”
“Vanessa Kohler.”
“Who?”
“Phantoms. You just rejected it.”
“It’s one-thirty in the morning, Ms. Kohler,” Randolph answered, fighting to sound civil. “Would you please call me at work?”
“Who got to you?”
“I will not continue this discussion at this time.”
“Was it my father? Did someone from the government visit you? Did someone threaten you or buy you off?”
“I rejected your book because of insufficient documentation, Ms. Kohler. There was nothing sinister about the decision.”
“You don’t expect me to believe that?”
Vanessa heard a sigh on the other end of the line. “I don’t know how you got this number, but a call at this hour is a violation of my privacy. I am going to end it in a moment, but, since you insist on knowing, not only have you failed to verify your rather dramatic claims, but your past makes it highly unlikely that any publishing house would give them any credence.”
“My past?”
“Your mental history, Ms. Kohler. And now I must hang up. I have a hard day tomorrow and I need my sleep.”
“Who told you I was hospitalized, who told you that?”
But Vanessa found herself talking to a dead line. She slammed down the phone, redialed, and got a busy signal for her efforts. She was about to throw the phone at the wall when the front door opened and Sam Cutler walked in carrying his camera equipment. He was dressed in jeans and wore a tight black T-shirt under a windbreaker.
Vanessa was five-ten. Sam was a little taller-and solid, while Vanessa verged on anorexic. He was a few years older than Vanessa, and his gray-streaked brown hair was receding up front.
Sam stopped in his tracks and Vanessa froze, arm cocked, the phone a moment away from destruction. Sam saw the manuscript on the coffee table.
“A rejection, huh? I was going to hide it until I came home. Then I got a call and forgot.”
The arm holding the phone dropped to Vanessa’s side. “Someone got to the editor. I’m sure of it.”
“How do you know that?” Sam asked, keeping his voice neutral because he knew that the slightest sign of doubt where this subject was concerned could push Vanessa into an uncontrollable rage.
“He knew I was hospitalized. How did he find out about the sanatorium if someone didn’t tell him?”
Sam crossed the room. He knew better than to try for physical contact now. He hoped that standing close would calm her.
“Maybe there was something in the papers,” he suggested. “Your father is big news right now. There might have been a sidebar about the family.”
Vanessa shook her head vehemently. “They want to discredit me. There’s no way they’re going to let this get out.”
“Who is ‘they’?” Sam asked, knowing that he was treading on thin ice.
“My father, the military, the CIA. You don’t think they were all involved? Once the truth gets out, Watergate will look like a tea party. They can’t afford to let the public get even a hint of what I know.”
Sam had been down this road before. “If that’s true, why hasn’t anyone tried to kill you?” he asked calmly. “Why hasn’t anyone stolen your manuscript? You haven’t made a secret of what you’re doing. Everyone knows about your book. You even tried to interview that guy at the CIA, and nothing happened.”
Vanessa glared at Sam. “You don’t understand how they work. They could steal my manuscript, but they know I’d just write the book again. Besides, my attorney has a copy. And killing me would let everyone know that I was telling the truth.”
“Everyone who? Come on, Vanessa. I respect what you’re trying to do. I know you think you’re right, but most people who know about this…Well, they don’t believe it. And the CIA could make your death look like an accident, if they wanted to. You know that. No one would think you were killed to suppress your book. People would think you were the victim of a hit and run or had a heart attack or something like that.”
Vanessa slumped down on the couch. “You’re right,” she said. She sounded very tired. “Randolph is right.” She closed her eyes and laid her head back. “I’m an ex-mental patient and I don’t have a shred of evidence that proves that the Unit ever existed. There never was much evidence, anyway-just a few sheets of paper, and they’re gone.”
“You look all in, babe. Let’s get to bed. You’ll think better in the morning. You’ll figure out what to do when your mind is clear.”
“He’s going to win, Sam. He always wins and he’s going to win again. I can’t stop him, I never could. No one can.”
Vanessa’s hands curled into fists and her eyes snapped open. A vivid anger was sizzling in them.
“Do you know how my father made his bones in the intelligence community?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Think about this. Daddy was promoted very rapidly starting in early 1964, right after the Kennedy assassination.”
Sam’s mouth gaped open. “You don’t think…?”
“I think my mother knew. I think that’s why he killed her, to keep her from telling the truth about who was really on the grassy knoll.”
“Did your mother tell you she thought that…?” Sam couldn’t even finish the sentence.
“She was always upset on the date of Kennedy’s death. When I asked her why, she would never tell me. And she looked scared to death if I asked while my father was in the room.”
“Ah, Van,” Sam said, dropping onto the couch beside her and wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “You’ve got yourself in a knot. You’re not thinking straight.”
Vanessa’s rage disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. She laid her head on Sam’s shoulder and started to cry.
“I hate him, Sam. I hate him. I wish he were dead.”
CHAPTER THREE
Ami Vergano grabbed her purse and locked the front door. Ryan stuffed his baseball in his mitt and charged toward the statio
n wagon. Ami froze with her hand on the doorknob, wondering if she’d turned off the living room lights. Electricity cost money she couldn’t afford to waste. Then she remembered the bag with Ryan’s snacks. She reopened the door and dashed into the kitchen.
“We’ll be late, Mom,” Ryan yelled anxiously, reminding Ami of something she knew already. She was still wearing the navy blue pantsuit and powder-blue shirt she’d worn at work because she had not had time to change. A client had kept her on the phone forever and she’d had to drive home like a lunatic in order to get Ryan to his Little League game on time. Being a professional woman and a single mother sucked, but she wasn’t a trust fund baby, she had to pay the bills. And Ryan made all the running around and stress worthwhile. Every time she started to feel sorry for herself, Ami looked at her son and realized just how lucky she was, despite everything that had happened.
When she graduated from law school, Ami had never imagined herself living a frantic existence on the edge of financial ruin. She was married to Chad Vergano, the love of her life, and had just been hired by a small Portland firm. When Ryan was born, her future looked rosy. But life has a way of playing tricks on us. When Ryan was five, Chad died in a freak bicycling accident. They had only a small life insurance policy, and neither of their parents was well off, so Ami had to depend on her salary at the firm. Then the firm disintegrated. Unable to find work with another firm because of a horrid economic climate, Ami had been forced to hang out a shingle. She had friends who fed her work, and she was starting to build a clientele, but the demands of parenting made it tough to take on any case or client that would require too much of her time. This meant living on a shoestring budget and praying that she would never get sick.
Ami shut the front door and got into the car. “Let’s go,” Ryan shouted impatiently as she fastened his seat belt. Daniel Morelli hopped into the back. As the adult, he should have been sitting beside her, but Daniel had turned out to be a gentle, considerate soul who knew that Ryan liked to sit in front and pretend to be the man of the house.
Ryan’s game was being played at a field behind the local middle school, and Ami pulled into the parking lot with three minutes to spare. Ryan tore out of the car and raced toward his teammates, who were grouped around Ben Branton. Ben’s son played third base and Branton Cleaners, the family business, sponsored the team.
Morelli watched Ami watching Ryan and smiled. “He’s a handful.”
Ami smiled back. “He’s not so bad. He just gets so excited.”
Ben Branton spotted Morelli and waved him over. The two men had met at Ryan’s last game.
“Dan, I need a favor. Rick Stein usually helps me out, but Andy is sick so he’s not here. Can you be my assistant coach today?”
“No problem. What do I do?”
Branton handed Morelli a roster attached to a wooden clipboard, and a mechanical pencil. He was explaining Morelli’s duties when the umpire called the coaches onto the field. Ami settled in the stand between two other Little League moms.
Ryan’s team scored a run in the second inning. Two innings later, the other team tied the score. Ami cheered good-naturedly like most of the other parents when Ryan got a hit. Barney Lutz was the exception. Lutz was a huge man with a beer gut and thick shoulders he’d developed doing construction work. His heavy black beard and perpetual scowl frightened Ryan. Barney’s kid, Tony, was also a load and no one liked him or his father. They were bullies and sore losers. Ben Branton constantly had to deflect Tony’s attacks on his teammates and opposing players. At games, Barney stood behind the backstop, jeering the opposing squad or ordering Tony and his teammates around. Ben Branton’s attempts to get Barney to tone it down were ignored.
The trouble started in the fifth inning when Tony hit a single and tried to stretch it to a double. Ben told Tony to stay on first, but his father bellowed at him to run. Tony was fat and slow. The right fielder pegged the ball to the second baseman with plenty of time to make the tag. Tony saw that he would be out at second and would never get back to first. Out of frustration, he stopped short of second base. When the second baseman tried to tag him, Tony threw out both hands. The kid was half Tony’s size, and the blows sent him sprawling. The umpire and both coaches ran onto the field to see if the second baseman was okay. The kid was crying but was more shocked than hurt. As his coach attended to him, Ben pulled Tony Lutz aside and began bawling him out.
Two policemen had been watching the game. Ami had seen one of them urging on the pitcher for the opposing team and guessed that he was a parent. The officers moved to the edge of the infield when Barney Lutz headed for Ben. Morelli stood to one side, watching quietly.
“That was a terrible thing to do,” Ben Branton was telling Tony when Barney Lutz reached him. Ben looked over at Tony’s father.
“I can’t let Tony play anymore today, and I’m not letting him play next week.”
“Bullshit. My boy just plays aggressive baseball. The second baseman was blocking the bag.”
Ben Branton was slender, bookish, and five inches shorter than Barney Lutz, but he held his ground.
“I’m suspending Tony.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I have to, Barney. He fights all the time. That sets a very bad example for the other kids.”
“Listen, you candy ass, my boy’s got fire. If these spoiled brats played as hard as Tony we’d win some games.”
“Hey,” Morelli said, “could you tone it down? There are kids here.”
Barney glared at Morelli. “I’m not talking to you, so fuck off.”
“Barney,” Branton said, “I’ll have to suspend Tony for the rest of the year if you don’t stop this scene.”
“You’re not suspending anyone, you faggot. I’m coaching from now on. So get the fuck off the field.”
Barney turned toward Morelli. “Give me that,” he said, making a grab for the clipboard. Ben grabbed Lutz by the forearm. Lutz wrenched his arm loose and pulled his hand back to punch the coach. Branton staggered away from the threatened punch and tripped over his feet. As the coach fell to the ground, Morelli chopped down with the side of the clipboard and shattered Lutz’s wrist. Lutz went white from pain and swung his head toward Morelli, exposing his neck. Morelli drove the mechanical pencil into the bully’s throat. The huge man’s eyes went wide, his hands flew to his neck, and he crashed to the ground. Ben Branton stared in horror as Lutz gurgled and writhed in front of him.
The policemen had rushed forward as soon as they saw Lutz start to swing. The big man was tumbling to the ground when the first officer grabbed Morelli from behind. Ami saw the policeman fly through the air. Dust rose where his shoulder hit the ground. Morelli transformed his hand into a spear and aimed his fingertips at the helpless policeman’s throat. The other officer pulled his gun and fired. Morelli half-stood and turned. The officer fired again and Morelli collapsed in the dirt. All around Ami, people were gasping and screaming, but the only sounds that reached her clearly were Ryan’s cries of “Dan, Dan,” as he rushed toward his fallen hero.
Ben Branton had not moved from the time Morelli stabbed Barney Lutz until Morelli was shot by the police officer. Ryan’s screams snapped him out of his trance. The policeman heard Ryan’s footsteps and whirled around. “No!” Ben yelled when he saw the gun pointing at Ami’s son. Ryan and the policeman froze. Ben ran to Ryan and scooped him up.
The policeman with the gun looked as startled as everyone else. In the stands, terrified parents were calling 911 on their cell phones. A mother from one team and a father from the other rushed up and told the officer they were doctors. The policeman who had tried to subdue Morelli was grimacing in pain from a shattered collarbone, but he told the doctors to tend to Lutz and Morelli.
Ami took her son from Ben. Ryan was staring at Morelli. Blood had pooled around his wounds, turning the brown dust rusty-red. Ami turned Ryan so he would not see his wounded friend and started to walk off the field.
“Ma’am,” the officer with the g
un said. Ami stopped. He pointed at Morelli. “Do you know this man?”
“Yes. He’s my tenant. He was helping the coach.”
“I know you want to take your son away from here, but I need you to stick around. The detectives will want to ask you some questions.”
Ami nodded and led Ryan from the field in a daze. Daniel Morelli had been living in her home for two months. She thought that he was a quiet, kind, and gentle man. She could not believe how wrong she had been.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Best giant rat story I’ve read since the Enquirer piece about the prehistoric rodent that was terrorizing that island near Borneo.”
It was almost five, and Patrick Gorman was standing over Vanessa’s desk with a grin plastered on his face. Gorman was a fat man with heavy jowls and an alcoholic complexion. He was usually fun to work for because he didn’t take himself or the paper seriously, but he could be demanding. For Gorman, UFOs and the Loch Ness monster were commodities, like sneakers for Nike. Produce, and Gorman loved you. Adversely affect his bottom line, and there was hell to pay.
“Stuff it, Pat,” Vanessa said. She glared at her boss. “You owe me.”
Gorman laughed. “You could have gone with the alien abduction.”
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