Snake Bite

by Jim Heskett

  Snake Bite

  Layne Parrish Book 4

  Jim Heskett

  Contents

  Offer

  I. Bring Your Own Bucket

  II. West Texas Locals

  III. Secrets To Your Grave

  Learn More

  A Note To Readers

  Books by Jim Heskett

  About the Author

  Offer

  Want to get the Layne Parrish novella Museum Attack for FREE? It’s not available for sale anywhere. Check out www.jimheskett.com/free for this free, exclusive thriller.

  Part I

  Bring Your Own Bucket

  1

  Harry Boukadakis gasped for air. Strong hands pushed him along what he assumed was a hallway. He had to assume, because the bag over his head prevented him from seeing anything. One foot in front of the other, barely able to keep pace with the person or persons forcing him to some unknown destination.

  He’d been able to gather a few pieces of intel about his current situation, though. They had snatched him last night, right after leaving his weekly Dungeons and Dragons tabletop gaming session with Ethan and Danny. The last time he would see his friends for more than a week before embarking on his planned vacation.

  Harry had felt a pinch in his thigh walking out to his car, then a sudden and severe feeling of heat. Flushed, like pins and needles. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he lost control. He remembered the sensation of his legs crumpling, then blackness.

  When he awoke, he’d been bound, gagged, and walking up stairs. Short stairs. Eyes too bleary and head too foggy to make anything out. The thrum of airplane engines had filled his ears. That led to an involuntary trip on an airplane, where he had been secured to a seat the entire time. Hard to say how long, exactly. Maybe four hours. The bag had been over his head for the duration, even when they had escorted him to the bathroom mid-flight.

  Four hours was enough time to travel from Virginia to any number of destinations.

  When he deboarded the airplane, though, he had a better sense of location. The dry air told him desert. Possibly. New Mexico, Arizona, maybe Utah. And then, a far off voice from a loudspeaker told him he was in Sedona. As soon as the loudspeaker had sounded, they ushered him along faster. He wasn’t supposed to know.

  Then, a forced ride in a car, and now shuffling along a hallway. Until this point, his captors had not said a single word to him. They pushed him to his right and then turned him around. Rough hands shoved him down, and Harry felt the hard wood of a chair connect with his butt. A splash of pain worked up his back.

  The bag whipped off. His eyes slammed shut from the sudden appearance of light. In a couple of seconds, he creaked them open, slowly letting them adjust. Chest heaving, feeling the weight of his belly push against his arms, still restrained.

  “Good morning, Harry,” said a musical male voice.

  He blinked a few more times until he could open his eyes all the way. He found himself in a bedroom. A single bed, queen-size, with metal piping for a headboard. Nightstands on either side, no clock or lamps. A small bathroom in a side room near the bed. There was a dresser and the chair he was sitting in, and a single piece of art on the walls. A framed print of a sun setting between two red rock spires.

  His hands were cuffed together. Red welts covered his wrists. He didn’t remember trying to resist and pull free from the cuffs, but he had, apparently.

  “How was your trip?” said the man. There were two of them. One, younger than Harry, maybe mid-thirties. He stood back near the door. Tall, white, a wiry frame with jet black hair and emerald eyes. A wicked sunburn had turned his light skin pink. Cheeks gaunt and hints of faded acne scars gave him dozens of pocks like dimples. His arms were crossed in front of him, a deep scowl on his face. Harry assumed this was the one who had brought him here.

  The other, the speaking man, was older. Fifties, probably. A sharp black suit on his average build. Gray and thinning hair sat atop a wrinkly face, with patchy stubble poking through. Huge hands, though,. Too big for his body. This man had kind brown eyes and a warm smile.

  He also held a copy of The New York Times in his hands, rolled into a tube. He was using those large hands to twist the paper, tighter and tighter. Harry listened to it crinkle as he tried to catch his breath.

  “My trip?” Harry asked, and his throat burned. Something in that syringe they’d used to knock him out still lingered in his system. The room veered back and forth, and his stomach gurgled, like the effect of taking a little too much cough medicine.

  “I know you had other plans for the day, but we don’t always get what we want, do we?”

  The man had a certain vocal affectation, like a regal sort of mid-Atlantic accent. Not quite British, and not quite American, either. Harry hadn’t heard anyone speak like that since the movies he’d watched as a kid.

  “What’s happening to me?”

  The man kept twisting his newspaper, tighter and tighter. The smile on his face seemed tempered by his jaw, which suggested his teeth were clenched.

  “I hope Cornelius wasn’t too rough with you. He does great work, but sometimes, he can be a bit of a brute.”

  The man standing beside the door deepened his scowl, but he said nothing.

  “My name is Ronald,” the smiling man said. “I’m sorry that it had to come to this, Harry. But, desperate times, you know? And, we find things get even more desperate as the clock runs out, but that’s the way it always is.”

  Harry tried to keep his breaths even and calm, but it wasn’t working. The fact that his captors had said their names didn’t bode well. If they’d intended to let Harry walk out of here alive, they wouldn’t have shown their faces, either. When this fully dawned on him, he had to close his eyes to keep the room from spinning.

  “Harry, you look upset.”

  He pushed out a few deep and deliberate breaths, and the room stopped moving. When he opened his eyes again, his captor was still smiling.

  Ronald reached inside his jacket pocket, then he frowned. He turned to the muscle standing by the door. “Corn, do you have them?”

  Cornelius pulled a couple of Polaroid pictures from his back pocket and passed them to Ronald.

  Ronald sighed. “Ahh. That’s right. We thought we might need these last night, but you were easier to bag than we had expected. You can never be too sure how this will go. It’s a bit like one of those games you play at summer camp, you know? When you have the egg on a spoon, and you’re racing to carry the egg to the other side of the field. Hurry up, but be careful.” He turned to his partner again. “Corn, would you mind? This might be a little unpleasant.”

  Corn crossed the room and drew another set of handcuffs from his pocket. He latched one around Harry’s ankle and attached it to the chair. It tightened until Harry could feel the metal cutting into his flesh.

  “Now,” Ronald said. He placed one of the Polaroids on the bed next to Harry, face up. Harry’s heart thumped against his chest when he saw the picture. A photo of his wife, taken from outside, through the kitchen window. She was standing at the sink, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing lasagna from a plate. Complete lack of awareness on her face, she had no idea she was being photographed.

  This picture must have been taken two days ago. That’s when they’d had the lasagna. Harry could see the blurry hint of branches in the foreground. Someone had been in his backyard, perched in his spruce pine tree.

  Ronald hoisted the other Polaroid, facing away from Harry.

  “You know what’s on this one?” Ronald asked.

  Harry shook his head. “Please don’t.”

  Ronald turned the picture around. Harry’s son, sitting on the couch, a video game controller in his hand, eyes glued to the television. Harry could even see the reflectio
n of the person taking the picture in the French door window.

  Harry felt ill. He thought he might throw up. Nausea in his stomach swirled, and his head felt light. He closed his eyes for a ten-count to calm himself, but it didn’t seem to do any good.

  Ronald set the photograph on the bed, next to the one of his wife. Harry didn’t know what to say. He gritted his teeth, trying to keep himself from passing out.

  Ronald cleared his throat and again dug a hand into his jacket pocket. This time, he found what he was looking for, apparently. He drew a small piece of paper and unfolded it. Those large hands set the paper in Harry’s lap.

  From the side, Corn approached, cell phone out.

  “Control," Ronald said. “Isn’t that what you call Daphne Kurek? Like in that old book?”

  Harry hesitated, then he nodded. There was no point in trying to deceive this man. He knew everything already. “Yes.”

  “Good. We’re making progress.”

  Harry realized his jaw was clenched so tightly, the pain had radiated down into his neck.

  “We’re going to call your boss, and you will read what’s on that little piece of paper. I don’t expect it to work forever, but it should buy me a day or two, at least. Enough time to wrap up another project before we give you our full attention.” Ronald leaned forward, and a grave look crossed his face. The newspaper in his hands creaked as he tightened the tube. “You are going to read exactly what’s on that page. If you deviate or add in strange pauses, I will know. If you try to pass across a message some other way, I will know. And, if you do,” he let the words hang in the air as he glanced down at the Polaroids sitting on the bed. “Do you understand?”

  Harry gulped, but he nodded. His ears buzzed. Corn stood next to him and placed the phone up against his ear. It rang, and a few seconds later, Daphne’s voicemail picked up.

  2

  Layne Parrish stood next to the bench, his eyes sweeping across the area to make a tactical analysis of the situation. His daughter, the newly four-years-old Cameron Parrish, was currently in the sandbox, digging a plastic cup to scoop sand from one pile. She would scoop and then put it in a different pile. While the park had several other options for play, such as swing sets and jungle gyms, Cameron only wanted the sandbox these days.

  She seemed obsessed with filling and draining objects. Moving things from one place to another. She had been for a couple years now, but she’d become much more sophisticated at her means of transferring. Layne appreciated the way she challenged herself to improve her skills.

  She looked up at him and grinned. Dots of sand stuck all over her hands and arms. Normally, the hot summers in Denver didn’t allow for this level of humidity. But, the fog had kept the morning slick in the nearby suburb of Broomfield, where Cameron lived with her mother every other week.

  Layne grinned back and continued his visual sweep of the area. Mostly, he was concerned with any other children who might try to take Cameron’s bucket. It was a nice bucket. So far, he saw no one who could be a problem.

  Inessa Parrish, Cameron’s mother, sat on the bench next to Layne while he stood. At six feet tall, with her long blonde hair flowing over her shoulders, she stood out, compared to the other park moms. Layne had counted at least four park dads who had come by to flirt with her. Two of them had even dropped the obvious line about how she could be a model. And she was, actually.

  Layne had no problem with the flirting since they were divorced. Although, he was a little surprised, since Layne was 6’4”, with tattooed biceps like tree trunks, and he was standing right next to her. Not holding hands or anything like that, but they were within inches of each other, obviously not strangers. But, these guys didn’t care about him, apparently.

  Inessa had no problem shooing them away on her own. While Layne and Inessa didn’t always get along, they were both trying, for the benefit of these joint playdates. It was for Cameron, of course. Everything for her.

  The scant blond hairs on the back of Layne’s neck stood up when he heard Cameron yelp. His eyes shot right to her. A small boy had his hands on her bucket, trying to wrench it free from her grasp. They were both speaking in their intense tiny kid voices. The bucket shifted back and forth between them as each tried to gain control of it. Scowls on faces, little eyes flared.

  “Are you going to do anything about that?” Inessa asked him in her sharp and cutting Russian accent.

  Layne shook his head. “I’m going to let them work it out. She’s got to learn to fight her own battles. She loves that bucket and minds it like her life depended on it. Trust me, she won’t let that kid take it.”

  Inessa sighed and crossed her arms, but she didn’t argue with him. For a few seconds, the kids fought, and little Cameron held her ground with no signs of relenting.

  But then, Layne clenched his fists as he watched a grown man stomp across the park toward Cameron and the little boy. Venom on his face. The man dropped to one knee opposite Cameron and the little boy, and he started speaking while gesturing with his hands. Directly to Cameron.

  “I assume you’ll do something about this now?” Inessa asked.

  Instead of answering, Layne marched across the playground on a direct course toward them. As he got closer, he could hear a little of the conversation. Cameron and the boy arguing, each demanding the other release the bucket. And the grown man, who Layne assumed was the boy’s father, telling Cameron she needed to let the boy play with it.

  Layne reminded himself to stay calm. He tried to make his fists unclench, but he couldn’t seem to do it. More than a decade of combat training told him to stay loose and ready. Always ready. Habits like those were hard to break, apparently.

  Layne came to a stop at the edge of the sandbox. “What’s going on here?”

  “Daddy!” Cameron shouted. “This boy wants my bucket! Make him stop.”

  “Sir?” Layne asked. “Why are you speaking to my daughter?”

  The man looked up at Layne. White guy, maybe eight or ten years younger than Layne. Thirty-five, tops. He had a faded tattoo of a rattlesnake on his left forearm. Layne couldn’t quite tell if it was a prison tattoo, but it didn’t appear to be of high quality.

  “This your kid?” the guy asked.

  Layne nodded, not breaking eye contact.

  “My son wants to play in the sandbox, and your daughter won’t share the tools with him. He doesn’t think that’s fair, and neither do I.”

  “If your boy wants a bucket for sand, he should have brought his own. That’s my daughter’s, and she doesn’t want to let him have it.”

  The guy stood to his full height. Tall and muscular, but not quite as big and bulky as Layne. There weren’t many dads at the park who rivaled Layne’s size, but this guy was close. Not that it would have mattered to Layne Parrish how big and tall the guy was.

  “Does that mean she can’t share? Don’t you teach her to share?”

  Layne gritted his teeth, then he took a breath. “Look, man, what I teach my daughter is none of your business. But, since you asked… I teach her to share things when she wants to. And she doesn’t want to share the bucket. I tell her it’s good to make friends and let your friends play with your toys, but it’s also good to stick up for yourself when someone is trying to take advantage of you.” When the guy didn’t answer, Layne added, “Is that going to be a problem?”

  The guy hesitated a moment, then his eyes trailed along the tattoo sleeves blanketing Layne’s arms. He then looked at his son, whose eyes were tennis-matching back and forth between his dad and Layne. Through gritted teeth, the guy said, “Nope. No problem.”

  “Good. If he wants to come back a little later, my daughter might change her mind. She’ll get tired of it eventually.”

  The dad grabbed his son by the shoulder. “Come on, Elias. We’ll go swing.”

  Elias protested, but his dad tugged on him, and they were gone in a few seconds. Layne looked back toward Inessa, and she was frowning. Layne didn’t quite understand why. He
considered this to be a quality outcome where everyone got a little of what they wanted. He didn’t even have to punch the guy.

  Layne dropped to one knee. “You okay, little one?”

  “Yeah,” Cameron said, nodding. “That boy was rude. I told him no, but he still tried to take my bucket.”

  “Yes, he was rude. It’s good to share, but you don’t always have to share, okay? It’s your choice if you want to be friends with that boy.”

  “Okay, Daddy. Can I play for a little longer?”

  He brushed wayward strands of blonde hair back from her face and nodded as he kissed her cheek. She resumed playing in the sand. As Layne stood and plucked a few sandy grains from his lips, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Layne took it out to see an unavailable number listed on the caller ID.

  But, he had a feeling who it was. This happened from time to time, and the calls always came when he was least expecting it. Somehow, she knew how to surprise him. Also, it had been a little while since they’d spoken, so it seemed like he was due.

  “Hello, Daphne,” Layne said as he accepted the call.

  “How did you know it was me?” Daphne’s smoky voice in his ear triggered something in Layne. He couldn’t describe it, but it was equal parts animosity, nostalgia, and lust. A perfect recipe for confusion.

  “I don’t know. I just had a feeling. Turns out, I was right.”

  “I know how much you like to be right.”

  Layne cleared his throat. “What do you want?”

  “I need to talk to you about something important, Boy Scout. Can you get to a secure line?”

  He shrugged off the mention of his old operational handle. He’d never liked it, but Daphne refused to let it go. Years after she had any right to use it, but she still did. “This line is secure, Control. You can speak freely.”