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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
DAMNABLE
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove mass-market edition / September 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Hank Schwaeble.
All rights reserved.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-13470-2
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
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
EPILOGUE
Praise for Hank Schwaeble and Damnable
“Flat-out fabulous. Hank Schwaeble’s distinct voice is like a seasoned pro’s. Damnable kept me breathlessly glued to the pages from start to finish. Fast-paced, edgy, and gripping.”
—Cherry Adair, New York Times bestselling author
“Hank Schwaeble is a new, talented voice on the scene. He writes with a confidence that could be called swagger if he wasn’t so good. Damnable is a powerful tale that employs the best elements of many genres to create something fresh and irresistible.”
—Thomas F. Monteleone,
award-winning author of The Blood of the Lamb
“With his debut novel, Damnable, Hank Schwaeble steps into territory usually dominated by Dean Koontz or the Preston and Child duo, and solidly holds his ground. This is one of the most suspenseful, inventive, and consistently surprising first novels I’ve read in years, and is certain to put Schwaeble on the map in a big way.”
—Gary A. Braunbeck, Bram Stoker and
International Horror Guild-award winner
“Fast-paced and tension ratcheting, Hank Schwaeble’s Damnable is a page-turner sure to satisfy the most fickle supernatural-thriller junkie. This one definitely won’t be collecting dust on your nightstand.”
—Deborah LeBlanc, author of Morbid Curiosity and Water Witch
“Hank Schwaeble’s Damnable is a first-rate fusion of horror, suspense, and noir. There are plenty of creeping chills and chilling creeps here for every fan of the dark. Schwaeble takes the horror-action novel to the max.”
—Tom Piccirilli, award-winning author of The Cold Spot
“Damnable is chock-full of deeply flawed but intensely intriguing characters, simultaneously unconventional, disturbing, and remarkable. Its flare for the macabre makes the suspense tingle, and the story lingers long after the final pages. One awesome kickoff.”
—Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author of The Charlemagne Pursuit
PROLOGUE
THE BRUNETTE AT THE COUNTER WITH LOOKS TO DIE FOR, the homeless-looking guy staring through the window, and the man sitting across from him who called himself Benny were all vying for Garrett’s attention, but it was doughy, balding, and surprisingly calm Benny who was still getting most of it, since he was the one negotiating the murder of his wife.
“So, when would you, uh, do it? How long before, you know . . . ?”
Garrett took another sip of his coffee. Lots of sugar, lots of cream. It tasted like crap. Sweet, creamy crap.
He lowered the cup, deciding it was too hard to screw up a pot of coffee that badly. Coffee was like pizza and sex—no matter how bad it was, it was usually still pretty good. The taste must have been caused by something else. Present company, most likely.
“That depends,” he said.
The man nodded rapidly, as if Garrett’s response made perfect sense. Garrett signaled for the waitress, held up his cup, and dipped his head toward it. She came by with a shiny metal pot and gave him a refill as Benny fidgeted and stared at the half-eaten croissant in front of him. Maybe not so calm, after all. Garrett thanked the woman and watched her walk away, deciding she was too skinny. Nothing compared to the babe at the counter. Not even the same sport, let alone league. It was all mental masturbation anyway—he was spoken for, and in a big way. And getting bigger by the day. That thought, coupled with a reminder of why he was there, threatened to make him laugh, so he coughed instead, clearing his throat. He dumped two plastic tubs of cream, followed by two packets of sugar, into the ceramic mug and picked up his spoon.
The coffee shop was busy for a weekday afternoon, but not full. Benny had picked the area, but Garrett had picked the spot, based on a recommendation that it was unlikely to be a place he’d bump into anyone he knew. It was like every other coffee shop he’d ever been in. The old-fashioned ones, at least; not the yuppie chains offering expensive blends in foreign sizes. People came for the chance to talk, read, or grab a bite. They sure as hell didn’t come for the coffee.
“I suppose you have to be flexible, huh?” Benny picked up his croissant, set it back down. “I haven’t exactly done anything like this before.”
“What makes you so sure that I have?”
The comment hung out there for a few beats before Benny dropped his head and laughed. Garrett laughed along with him. Benny pointed his finger across the booth, bouncing it, and sh
ook his head.
“You’re too funny,” he said.
The laughter faded. Garrett watched Benny pull a handkerchief from his pocket and blow his chubby nose. How long had it been since he’d actually seen someone use a handkerchief to blow his nose? Quite some time. The reason for that was obvious as Benny leaned to the side and stuffed the bundle of mucus back into his pocket.
Garrett took the opportunity to snatch another few glimpses of the place, still wondering if this fat piece of shit had brought someone with him as security. That’s what Garrett would do, but he wasn’t sure that logic applied to a guy who carried snot around in his pockets. The crowd hadn’t changed in the past few minutes. A young guy and a girl were sitting at a tiny table near the window, almost mirroring each other with greasy spiked hair over tattoos and face metal. They looked to be around fifteen but were probably twentysomething, their best years almost certainly behind them. An old man sporting a fedora sat in the far corner, reading a copy of the Times and working his lower jaw in circles while his pale tongue darted out over his lips. A guy in a sport coat one table over clicked the keys on a laptop and adjusted his glasses every few seconds, his back to Garrett.
At the counter nearby, the babe, a sultry minx with milky skin, sat sidesaddle on one of the stools, smartly arrayed in a taupe linen skirt and vest, sipping her coffee like a lounging starlet nursing a gin and tonic. She was the first he crossed off. Way too hot to be playing back door for this ass-clown, and no human being could feign disinterest quite that well. Two guys in ball caps were a few stools away, talking about the Yankees. Like the schmo on the laptop and the old guy with the paper, and even the kid with the metal when his girl wasn’t paying attention, they kept sneaking peeks at the brunette. Even the homeless guy who’d been loitering around the front for two or three minutes seemed to be fixated on her. He didn’t blame them. He’d been doing the same thing. There was something gravitational about her, something that screamed wild in bed. Just as the thought crossed his mind, she glanced up and caught his eye, gave him the kind of non-smile smile only a knockout was capable of before looking away a split second later. It seemed to Garrett like he could smell her fragrance across the room, a sweet, feral, fleshy scent beneath the aroma of coffee grounds and pastries. The same scent that sent his pulse racing when he brushed against her on his way to the booth.
He remembered a magazine article that said physical contact by a woman was almost never accidental. The thought buoyed him.
Trying to bite back a smirk, he wiped at his mouth. Women and imagination. A dangerous combination. His presence at the coffee shop was proof of that.
Benny tossed a quick glance over his back. The bout of nervous laughter seemed to have stripped his demeanor of pretense and left him jumpy. He cleared his throat and checked his watch. It was large and silver and would have been classy, if not for the Star Wars logo boldly printed on it face. The minute and second hands were miniature lightsabers.
Garrett pressed his lips to his cup, pulled back as he felt the heat. What kind of a fucking dork wears a Star Wars watch?
As often as Benny’s eyes let him, Garrett continued to discreetly monitor the other patrons, maintaining a peripheral awareness. Except for that homeless guy, none of them gave off a vibe. But a bum like that seemed a bit conspicuous for a confederate, hovering at the window the way he was. He doubted this schmuck was that careful anyhow, but you could never be sure. Not that it mattered. He dipped his spoon into his coffee, thinking about that. It definitely didn’t matter. Not for what he had in store. He was just curious about the way this ass-wipe’s mind worked.
“How do you want it to go down?” Garrett asked, making circles, watching the white spirals cloud the liquid, lighten it to a shade of beige, and then disappear before he raised his eyes.
Benny blinked several times. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, do you want it to look like an accident?”
“I figured I’d leave that kind of thing up to you.”
Over Benny’s shoulder, Garrett saw the homeless guy press his face against the front window again, backlit by the early afternoon sun. Doubts started creeping into his mind about whether this was really a homeless person, but the guy had that weird look. He was wearing a black button-down raincoat, even though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. His thinning hair was a bit disheveled, plastered to his head in places, and he was weaving back and forth like he might fall down at any moment. Something about him made him seem like he wasn’t all there. Garrett wondered if maybe he was eyeing the counter rather than the brunette. Longing for some pound cake, perhaps.
The raincoat. Garrett glanced down at the sleeve of his windbreaker, wondering how suspicious it looked in this kind of weather. Murphy’s Law dictated that today just had to be the sunniest day of the year. A trained eye would probably make the observation, question why he was wearing it, just as he did with the bum, but after a few seconds he realized it was just paranoia. Benny the fat-ass hadn’t seemed to notice anything, and Garrett knew it was unlikely he would. The mope was simply in way over his head.
Garrett tapped his spoon over the rim and set it down on the saucer. “It doesn’t work that way. We’ve got to be on the same page.”
Benny mopped his face, mulling over the words. His eyes moved from side to side with a pensive distance to them, like he was sampling a wine. “Right. I guess an accident sounds good. Don’t you always want it to look that way? Like an accident?”
“Unless you want me to make it look like a break-in. That’s got its advantages.”
“What advantages?”
“Well, you’d be able to set up an alibi, for one. And that way there’d also be no need to worry about them figuring out that maybe it wasn’t an accident, after all.” Garrett brought the cup to his lips, gingerly took a sip. Still a bit too hot. He could feel a numb spot set in near the tip of his tongue. “I could even rape her, if you’d like. Make it look convincing so no one would suspect you.”
Benny’s eyebrows jumped. “You could do that?”
A prince among men. Where the hell did she find this guy? “Sure. It would cost a little more, that’s all.”
“There is one thing. She’s a few months pregnant. Does that make a difference?”
Garrett tried to maintain a neutral expression. What an absolute creep. “Not if you’re okay with it.”
Benny squeezed one hand with the other, digging his thumb into his palm and rubbing at the backs of his knuckles. “I suppose you’re wondering why, huh?”
“It’s not any of my business.” But you’re going to tell me anyway, you predictable fuck.
“She wants a divorce. Even with the baby coming. I’ve worked and slaved to build a little business. I’ve got a ton of debt, a ton of debt. She’ll take half of my interest, and probably the house. I’ve got partners, investors. I can’t let her walk away with half, can’t let her take fifty percent of my voting rights. I’d lose control; I might lose everything.”
“Like I said, none of my business. So long as I get paid. I told you my price.”
“Right. About that—it strikes me as kind of high.”
The sound of the door, the intrusion of ambient outside noises drew Garrett’s attention. He shifted his gaze over Benny’s shoulder again to see the man in the black raincoat enter. Garrett had a much better view of him now, his features no longer in shadow. The man’s face was drawn and drooping, his skin a pale gray, like he was sick. There was something about his eyes that caused Garrett to tense up. They were set and focused, fixed in a way he knew meant one thing. Trouble.
“What’s wrong?” Benny asked.
Garrett didn’t respond as he watched the homeless-looking man walk toward the counter. The guy wasted no time in getting down to it, and Garrett could tell before he got there it wasn’t pound cake he was after. He grabbed the good-looking woman by her hair with one hand and swung his other arm beneath her armpit and around her torso in one swift motion. Without any he
sitation, he picked her up off the stool and dragged her back toward the door.
A silence fell over the place, accented by a few gasps and a couple of unintelligible exclamations. The baseball guys who’d been talking salary caps and free agency were up off their stools, but then merely stood there, frozen and gaping like everyone else. The waitress dropped her coffeepot and screamed. The man dragging the woman let go of her hair long enough to pull open the door and force her through it. By then, she was kicking and punching and twisting violently.
Garrett was already out of the booth and lunging after them when they reached the sidewalk. The scents and sounds of the city, car exhaust and machinery, the honks and beeps of traffic, the aroma of cooking and the stench of trash, the din of footfalls, all swarmed him. Pedestrians scrambled out of the way. A human semicircle formed, clearing a space, people pointing fingers and covering their mouths as they tried to figure out what they were witnessing. Garrett’s first thought was that the man was boxed in, but he didn’t try to veer right or left, didn’t even seem to notice. He simply kept dragging in the same direction, yanking the woman along with each stiff stride as she struggled and shouted, a parent carting off an unruly child. Step, drag, step, drag. Over the curb, between the bumpers of two parked cars, and into the busy avenue.
“Hey!” Garrett yelled, bolting forward and grabbing the woman by one of her wrists. He tried to set his feet, tripping and staggering as the man continued to move into the street. A car swerved to avoid them, the driver laying into the horn. Garrett felt the soles of his shoes slip across the asphalt, shot a hand out onto the hood of one of the parked cars, clawed at it, then decided to change tacks. He tugged on the woman’s arm instead and threw his body forward, launching himself over her, slamming his fist into the side of the man’s face. It was a good punch, a lot of propelled weight behind it, a lot of snap at the end of it. He felt the crack of bones, knew he’d broken his hand the moment it connected. He also knew he’d broken the guy’s jaw. He had to have.
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