The Devlin Deception: Book One of The Devlin Quatrology

by Jake Devlin

  (This one I like even better; JD. Hee-hee.)

  She giggled, nuzzling his neck and, sliding her hand further down under the water, she whispered, "Feels like Stevie Bruce is ready to play."

  He slid his hand down from her belly and murmured, "Feels like Ginny May is, too."

  She nuzzled him again and moaned softly. "Mmm."

  He chuckled, clicked the remote, and the Bolero began to play.

  “You two going to start without me again?”

  He said, “Thought you were asleep, JJ; sorry. C'mon in.”

  -Another Alternate Epilogue-

  Jake awoke in a clean, white room, bathed in clear, white light. He was naked, his scaly skin and crested head resting on a cold, metallic surface, with his tail curled across his belly and cradled in and around his seven arms. He was completely comfortable and quickly became totally alert, opening his three eyes.

  A disembodied voice surrounded him (translated as follows). "So, Zorgestal 347397458, what are your conclusions from your reconnaissance? Should we admit the planet to the Intergalactic Federation or annihilate it?"

  (Just for you skee-fee junkies. Live long and proper. JD)

  And Yet ANOTHER Alternate Epilogue

  (For you fans of a button-down brain. JD)

  Tuesday, November 6, 2012

  7:06 a.m.

  A luxury riverfront gated community

  Bonita Springs, Florida

  Marion Herman awoke to George's snoring and apparently laughing in his sleep. "George, wake up; you're dreaming again."

  "Wha?"

  "You're dreaming again."

  After coming a bit more awake, George was able to say, "Oh, geez, Marion, this was a GREAT dream. There was this assassin who pretended to be a beach bum who was writing this book about a guy who bought the country, and then he met --"

  "Oh, George, not another one of those. I am NOT letting Lurlene fix you that chocolate peanut butter turkey noodle tofu casserole ever again. The last time you had it, you dreamed about some young spy with amnesia, the one who looked like Matthew Bordrick."

  "No, that was Matthew ... Dillion?"

  "Whatever. No more of that casserole, ever!!! And if these dreams keep up, I'm gonna have to take you back to Dr. Deb."

  "No, not Dr. Deb. Please!"

  "Just a warning, George. But now we've got to get dressed and go vote. We've got to cancel out the kids' votes. And in four years, the grandkids'll be eligible, too, and they'll probably vote for that liar or his party, too; don't know what we're going to do then. Geez."

  “Wait, wait. I've got to make some notes on that dream. Maybe I'll write a whole book about it.”

  “Well, don't take too much time. I don't like long lines.”

  Marion rolled her eyes and climbed out of their adjustable, temperature-controlled bed. George grabbed his spiral notebook and began scribbling.

  An hour later, on their way to the precinct, George piped up: "And we watched a speech on TV at Slinky Joe's." Marion rolled her eyes.

  On the way back from voting, George mumbled: "No, not Dillion ... Damion?"

  Marion rolled her eyes and sighed.

  "Whatever."

  And Yet ANOTHER Other Alternate Epilogue

  Tuesday, September 25, 2012

  8:23 a.m.

  A small farmhouse near Lancaster, Pennsylvania

  Sarah Durgenmueller stalked into the kitchen, threw an oilcloth-wrapped packet onto the wood-hewn table, placed her stolid hands on her stolid hips and planted her 180-pound, five-foot-three-inch body stolidly in front of her husband, who was sitting placidly on a stool beside the table.

  “Jacob Durgenmueller, thou hast defilethed all that is holy with what thou hast writteneth there. The foul language, the rampant recreational procreative acts, spies, killers and guns, oh, my. And Pamela is not even a biblical name, not to mentioneth Mitzy, Bitsy or Ginny May. And that defilement you callethed a Suzanne? Thou musteth haveth visitethed that heathen harlot Heather again.

  “I submitteth to you, as iseth my holy and sworn duty, once a year, solely for procreation, as our holy Father and our elders have proclaimethed, but that certainly iseth NOT recreational.

  “And Florida, Paris, London, Vienna, Bangkok? Thou hast never travelethed further than the ten miles from this farm to the city. And all the newfangled things that thou hast includethed in there. What is a PC? A CD? A tablet? A three-way? Interpol? A bullet in the butt? And a tail and seven arms? An Alzheimer's dream? Satan's work! And what makest thou thinketh that thou knoweth anything at all abouteth nathional polithy or economicth? Thatan'th work!!!

  “Thou shalt certainly getteth uth shunnethed by the elders if they findeth out what thou hast wroughteth. I cannot believeth that such dreck cometh from thy brain. And your handwriting iseth awful, too.

  “I shalleth burneth this trash immediately when the fire getteth goingeth, and thou shalt milketh the cows so I mayeth churneth the butter and maketh the ice cream for the children's monthly treat. Then thou shalt driveth the buggy into Lancaster and get the lantern repairethed, and returneth immediately to this house.”

  Jacob rose from the stool, picked up the packet from the table, towered momentarily over his wife, said, “I divorceth thee, I divorceth thee, I divorceth thee. Thou canst milketh thine own – oh, fucketh it. You can milk your own fuckin' cows, you fat, ugly, self-righteous bitch, and I hope one of them kicks you in the fuckin' head,” and headed for the door.

  “I will take with me one fifth, not half, of our savings, leaving you with eight thousand dollars for the winter. I will take the buggy into town and get Caleb to repair the lantern and return the buggy to you. He's always coveted you, and I'll let him know you're his if he still wants you. I'm outa here. And if I ever again have to add 'eth' to plain old English verbs, I think I'll puke.” And he left, taking only two thousand dollars and the oilcloth-wrapped packet with him, leaving a finally speechless ex-wife spluttering behind.

  When he arrived in Lancaster about eleven, he left the buggy and an explanation with Caleb at the feed store, trudged down the street to a thrift store, where he paid twelve dollars for a short-sleeved knit shirt, khakis, socks, tennis shoes and a brand new pair of underwear. He changed into all that and left his baggy coat, shirt, trousers and hat as a donation; he threw his underwear and socks into a trashcan.

  He continued down the street to a barber shop, where he got his beard shaved off and his hair cut in a short, stylish cut the barber recommended, all for another twelve dollars, then sauntered another two blocks to a fast food restaurant, where he purchased a double cheeseburger, soft drink and small fries, the first in his 38-year life; he did not purchase an apple pie. He sat at the only empty table in the crowded restaurant, enjoying his first moments of freedom after years of virtual slavery on his now-ex-wife's family's farm.

  Savoring a second bite of the cheeseburger, his eyes closed in delight, he did not see the source of the gentle, melodious voice that said, “Excuse me. Is this seat taken?”

  Perflutzed, his mouth full of cheeseburger, his eyes opened, but he could only manage a welcoming gesture.

  “Thanks.”

  Jacob chewed and swallowed as rapidly as he could, but then could only mumble, “You're welcome,” as he watched the bewitching, perfectly figured 40-ish blonde slither into the plastic chair across from him, giving him a winning smile and batting her dazzling blues at him over her elegant sunglasses.

  Jacob licked his lips, then brushed at them with his thumb.

  “You missed a bit, there on the right,” she said, and reached over with a napkin and wiped the last bit from his lower lip.

  “Thank you,” he mumbled, still perflutzed.

  “No problem,” she said. “By the way, I like your hair style.”

  “It's new, just this morning.”

  “Did you have a beard? Your chin and jaw are very white.”

  “Yup, just had that shaved off this morning, too.”

  “Really? Why?”
/>
  “Oh, I got divorced and left the farm.”

  “Oh; sorry to pry. I didn't mean --”

  “It's okay.”

  “But you're a big, strapping guy, fairly good-looking. Why would your wife divorce you?”

  “No, the other way around. I just needed some freedom.”

  “Really? Wow. And now what are you going to do?”

  “I'm going to Florida, if I can find the bus … uh ... station? Depot? I haven't been off the farm very much.”

  “Hey, I'm going to Florida, and I could use some company on the drive.”

  “Really?”

  “You're not a serial killer or anything, are you?”

  “Nope, just a simple far- – ex-farmer.”

  “You'll need some sunscreen on your face. I'm driving with the top down.”

  “Sunscreen? What --”

  “Oh, you really are naïve, aren't you? It protects your skin against sunburn. I've got some in the car. So would you like to ride with me?”

  “I guess so; thank you.”

  “I've got a condo overlooking the beach, and I'm going down for the winter. A snowbird.”

  “A what?”

  “A – just a name for winter visitors there.”

  “Oh,” Jacob said, taking another bite of his cheeseburger.

  “I hate to leave the family, but they can always come for a visit.”

  “Family?” Jacob mumbled.

  “My sons, Bruce and Stephen, and their wives, May and Ginny, and the brand-new grandkids, Mitzy and Bitsy.”

  Jacob choked on his cheeseburger.

  “Are you all right?”

  Jacob nodded and managed to swallow. “Sorry.”

  “You sure you're okay?”

  “Yeah, fine. Thanks.”

  “Look, it's almost noon, and rush hour traffic in Baltimore can be a bitch. Okay if we go now and take this with us?”

  “Sure.”

  “Is that all you've got for luggage?”

  “Yup, just that packet.”

  “Good, 'cause my car is pretty full. I'll have to clear some stuff off the front seat, but you should be able to fit in.”

  “This is very nice of you.”

  “Don't sweat it. I can use the company; it's a long drive. Maybe you can spell me part of the time.”

  “Spell you?”

  “Drive some of the time, give me a break.”

  “Oh. Sorry, I don't know how to drive.”

  “Really? Wow. Okay. Hang on while I clear the seat off.”

  “Okay.”

  Once they were settled in the car, the woman pulled her hair back into a ponytail and slid her T-shirt off, revealing a black bikini top with a golden ring in the center, fetchingly holding two perky, firm breasts.

  Jacob gasped.

  “Oh, sorry; I just like to feel the wind and sun when I drive.”

  “No problem.”

  “Here's the sunscreen; it's creamy, not oily. Just smear it on.”

  “Thanks … uh, what should I call you?”

  “Oh, my name's Pamela, Pamela Brooks, but you can call me Pam. And you?”

  “Jacob Durgen- – uh, Devlin, but thou mayest – I mean you can call me Jake.”

  “Very nice to meet you, Jake Devlin,” Pam said, holding out her hand, which Jake shook. She held his hand a bit longer than Jake thought was usual.

  “So, Pam, what is it you do?”

  “I'm an agent.”

  “What? FBI, CIA, Secret --”

  She laughed, a deep, throaty, open laugh. “No, no, no, I'm a literary agent. I try to find new writers and market them.”

  “Really? That must be interesting.”

  “Only about eight percent of the time. The other 92 percent is just dreck.”

  “Oh.”

  “By the way, Jake, do you like Neapolitan ice cream?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, I do,” Jake said, as he leaned back in the leather seat, closed his eyes and smiled … and smiled … and smiled.

  And the Absolutely Positively FINAL* Epilogue

  Friday, October 5, 2012

  1:34 p.m.

  Bonita Beach, Florida

  The man sitting sideways on his homemade PVC lounge, fringe free, as it always had been, took a final puff of his little light cigar and stubbed it out, putting the butt in the empty blue-and-white pack with the others, then coughed deeply for half a minute. Then he pulled a container of mostly melted chocolate ice cream out of his cooler, took a sip, swallowed slowly, then took a sip from his water bottle and applied some lip balm, SPF 45.

  Lying back on his lounge, he picked up a non-spiral notebook, made some notes, set the notebook and pen back down, chuckled, reached into his cooler, popped a chocolate-and-orange-covered tofu ball into his mouth, then lay back, put his ecru beach hat over his face and fell into a deep, deep sleep, not the slightest bit perflutzed.

  The notes read:

  “Book 2:

  “A: When Pam and Jake arrivethed in Bonita --

  “B: When Pam and Jake arrived in the Indian Ocean ...

  “C: When Pam's butt had healed and they arrived IO/Somalia ...

  “D: When Pam and Jake and JJ arrived IO/Som …

  “E: When P/J started on her memoirs …

  “F: While Pam's butt healed, P/J started on her memoirs ...

  “G: When the Mimosa twins accepted the job in ____, they had no way of knowing that …

  “H: When the phone rang, Amber …

  *For one more “filters-totally-off”

  final epilogue, visit this link:

  JakeDevlin.com/alt

  So you think you know Bonita?

  If you're familiar with Bonita Springs

  and think you know the real names of the

  places in this book, as well as some other

  general stuff, you might want to visit this link:

  JakeDevlin.com/quiz

  Enjoyed this read? Tell your friends.

  JakeDevlin.com

  Hated it? Tell me.

  Jake.Devlin@JakeDevlin.com

  Now, here's an excerpt from the

  second novel in the quatrology

  “Devlin's Defiance”

  - 1 -

  November 12, 2012

  2:27 a.m. local time

  On the Aegean Sea

  Two modified, high-powered jet skis sped silently across the choppy surface, the heavily armed riders cloaked in black wet suits, black multipocketed vests and black ski masks, their eyes covered by night vision goggles; on their backs, each wore a harness with a complicated array of hoses, bars and nozzles.

  Two miles ahead, their destination perched precariously atop a craggy outcropping that rose eighty feet straight up from the sea, an isolated, irregular, natural obelisk. But the ancient monastery had thumbed its nose at gravity for over seven hundred years and would probably last another seven hundred.

  “Two miles to target, Fiona.”

  “Roger that, Becks. Drone shows no outside activity.”

  “Copy that, Fiona.

  “So, Cam, how's Blake doing?”

  “Much better now that I've moved him to that private school in Virginia; the public schools in DC are awful.”

  “Atrocious.”

  “Appalling.”

  “Abominable.”

  “Abhorrent.”

  “Abysmal.”

  “Um … agregious.”

  “Doesn't count, Cam; it's 'egregious,' with an E. Round goes to me.”

  “Can't blame a girl for trying, can ya?”

  “I'll put it on your tab. That's – what – 5K, so 55K now?”

  “Okay, okay. 55K it is. You'll get it as soon as we get paid for this job.”

  “Fair enough. Anyhow, agreed on the DC schools. Nate and I moved Tiffany out two years ago.”

  “I know. How's Nate doing in his new job?”

  “He's still sorting it out, but he says it's mostly okay. It's the only place that gave him an interview.”

&nbs
p; “Really? Only one interview in – what was it – nine, ten months?”

  “Over a year. That bitch of a boss he had wouldn't even give him a recommendation.”

  “Shit. A royal bitch, just like her namesake.”

  “The worst. At least he wasn't working for HER.”

  “Oh, at the State Department?”

  “Right. He's glad he's always been in the private sector, that's for sure, even if it was with that bitch. And I heard she got promoted to VP.”

  “Christ, Becks, really? Who'd she sleep with to get that?”

  “You know Malcolm, the CEO?”

  “Seen him and his family in the papers and on TV. You mean” --

  “She's been fuckin' him for at least three years.”

  “Three years? No kidding? Friggin' hypocrite.”

  “Yeah, so much for family values.”

  “Geez; asshole.”

  “And how are things with Armando?”

  “Oh, god, Becks, he's the sexiest man I've ever met. I damn near have a Big O just thinking about him.”

  “You'll bring him to the pot luck next Sunday?”

  “Oh, yeah. And you won't believe the dish he's bringing.”

  “Oohh, tell me.”

  “Nope, can't. He swore me to secrecy.”

  “Oh, c'mon, Cam. You can tell me.”

  “Sorry; can't. Really. He wants it to be a surprise. But you'll love it, guaranteed.”

  “Can't be any worse than that tofu shit whatsisname brought last year.”

  “Oh, Herb the herbalist? Yeah, that sucked. Never gonna date a vegan again, that's for sure.”

  “Bravo, Cam.”

  “But Armando, he's … he's – uh-oh. Oh, god, oh, oh, ohhhhh!”

  “Oh, Cam, did you just” --