Sentinel Rising: The Reardon Files #1

by Andrea Drew

  Sentinel Rising

  The Reardon Files

  by

  Andrea Drew

  www.andreadrewauthor.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.

  Copyright © 2016 Andrea Drew. All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.

  Version 2016.15.11

  Author’s Note

  As I’m an Australian author I’ve used UK English rather than American English. I hope my lovely American reader friends enjoy the story regardless of the spelling rules used.

  “Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.” Walter Scott

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Also by Andrea Drew

  Chapter 1

  Valentine's Day

  He hadn't meant to kill the love of his life. As he stared at the lifeless form, a mess of tangled limbs on the soft carpet, a chill seeped up his spine, through his veins, and deep into the marrow of his bones.

  He missed her so much, his darling Lauren. The love of his life, mother to his only child. How could she betray him? After all they'd been through, how could their life together be forgotten and dismissed as if none of it had ever happened? The secret conversations, the gossip, the problems solved together, the whispered moments before they drifted off to sleep—none of it mattered anymore. The loving Lauren he'd known had been caring and affectionate. Not the cold unfeeling bitch from hell that had screeched like an animal, told him he had no say in her life or in their child's life. When had she become uninterested in what he had to say?

  When he had tried to explain why they should stay together, her eyes had glazed over and shifted to her computer, to a picture on the wall, to the clothes he was wearing, but never to his face, never to meet his gaze.

  Her bright blue eyes had no longer reflected anything. She'd moved on a long time ago and taken her soul with her. He hadn't realised how screwed up and selfish she had become until their final confrontation.

  He hadn't meant to kill her, but now she lay still next to the filing cabinet where she had hit her head. She was gone forever and never coming back. At first, he'd tried to wake her up. He’d told her he was sorry, and that he never should have yelled at her like that or pushed her. When she hadn’t responded, he'd gone into panic mode, wrapping her in a sheet he'd pulled from the bed. But then he’d had no idea what to do with her body. He had knelt beside her, brushing her hair and removing the smeared makeup from under her unseeing eyes. Then the rush of what he'd done strangled him, closing his throat and filling him as he bellowed her name.

  The immediacy of the moment, the reality of it hurt, ears ringing and the reverberations in the room pushing back at him. The loss of all he held dear, everything that truly mattered to him had been taken as if it never existed. He should have controlled himself better, and positively should never have pushed her so hard she fell backwards and hit her head on the corner of the cabinet. A fierce dark beast had possessed him, burned its way inside his ribcage somehow, demanding to be heard, to be avenged, to win.

  Now he'd lost, really lost. There would be no coming back from this. The emptiness wouldn't leave, his chest a brittle shell of nothingness, like the dead animals he saw by the side of the road before they'd been splattered to a pulp, their fur matted and blowing in the back wind from each passing car. He almost wanted the searing pain back, the fury, something to reassure him he still retained some essence that made him human.

  He pulled the sheet over her face and lifted her in his arms. She was heavy. At first he held her there, swaying for a few seconds, suffering under the weight, wishing for more pain to ease his guilt, penance for a crime that could never be repaid.

  The clock beside the bed said 11.49pm. It was Sunday night, so few people would be on the roads. The neighbours pretty much kept to themselves, and no lights from the local industrial estate were twinkling in the distance. No one would see them.

  He carried her out to his car, pressed the automatic unlocking device on his keys, and laid her carefully in the boot. He wished he had a pillow to put underneath her head, but she'd be safe for now.

  He opened the passenger door and climbed in, and then started up the ignition. They had both loved it out here, and sometimes they'd sit at their favourite look out spot on the cliff, gazing out to the coast, surrounded by the city lights below them. There were still some reminders of civilization but not enough to distract them. He would take her there now She would be happy with Wilson's Point as her final resting place.

  Sweat prickled up his arms. He pushed down on the button to his right and the pane of glass from the driver’s side window disappeared with a whir. Memories pushed their way in: their first meeting, the first time they made love, and the first time they’d planned a future as they lay in bed, their feet intertwined.

  He didn't know how long he drove, but eventually he recognized the turnoff for their special spot. As he stepped out of the car, the bright moon watched over him, lighting the area for the task ahead. It had to be done quickly. Opening the back of the car, he reached over for the shovel, and walked eight steps to a low hanging tree. Testing the ground for softness, he found the perfect place for Lauren to rest a couple of metres away where tree roots weren't poking through the earth.

  He began to dig, tentatively initially. Then he thought about Lauren waiting in the back of the car, sleeping inside her pink sheet. He dug harder, the hole small at first, and then he lengthened it until there was enough room for her to rest in. Droplets of sweat formed on his spine, and then gathered into a trickle. He put down the shovel and returned to the car. Placing one arm under the back of her knees and the other just under her shoulders, he heaved her into his arms. At five foot four, she'd never been a big woman and, at that moment, he was thankful for her slender figure.

  He trudged over to the hole and squatted down to lay her in it.

  "Goodbye, darling. I'm so sorry,” he whispered. “Forgive me, please. I'll never forget you."

  He began shoveling dirt from the pile beside the hole to cover her. Once done, he patted the area down as best he could, brushed the dirt off his hands, and got back into the car for the return trip to Melbourne.

  ###

  It had been so long since Connor Reardon got a late-night call—more than two years, in fact. In a previous life, he’d accepted the calls at ungodly hours as par for the course. It was always one dispatcher or another, telling him in a bored tone there had been another murder and he needed to get his butt to the crime scene. Eventually he’d quit in disgust, tired of the red tape and politics from the brass.

  When he’d initially awoke, jolted from sleep by the sudden noise, he’d been in the middle of a bizarre vision, one in which his brother was still alive, and his nephew hadn’t been incarcerated for killing a detective.

  Fat chance.


  He opened his eyes and let them adjust to the dim light from the window. The still form of his fiancé, Gypsy Shields lay to his right. It would take more than a ringing telephone to wake her. His phone continued to buzz its way across the dark laminated top of his bedside table. He dragged his left arm from beneath the covers to find the lamp. The phone screen cast a glow, and he sat up in bed. Finding the lamp, he flicked the switch and grabbed the phone. He stared at the screen, which said 11.49pm.

  Had someone died? Where the hell was the fire?

  He'd forgotten to switch the phone to silent mode. Damn.

  He swiped the screen and brought it to his ear.

  "Hello?" he said quietly, not wanting to wake his fiancé, Gypsy, who lay unmoving in the bed beside him.

  "Is this Connor? I need your help. Urgently," the woman on the other side screeched, sounding near hysteria.

  Connor flinched. Great, just what he needed, a prospective client calling late on a Sunday night.

  "Who is this?" He fell back into bed “Elizabeth Metcalfe. My sister's been murdered."

  "Murdered? Have you called police?" said Connor.

  How did this wacko find me? At that moment, he wished she'd opened the damn yellow pages and started with A for some other arse hole private investigator.

  "She's disappeared,” Elizabeth continued in a rush. “I'm sure she's been murdered. She left her daughter behind and she'd never do that. Never ever."

  It didn’t sound good. "Look, I'm sorry, Elizabeth, but it’s late,” he said. “Call me in the morning and we'll make an appointment."

  "It's urgent. Can I come and see you in the morning first thing?"

  His arms prickled up. A murder.

  He let out a breath and flung back the covers. "I'm not sure. Can you call me tomorrow?"

  "I wouldn't ask if I didn't really need your help. Please."

  "Hang on." He padded from the bedroom to his home office and flicked on the desk light. He flicked open the pages of his paper diary and noticed he had a 2pm, but no appointments in the morning. "How about 9.45 am?"

  The woman's breath blew into the handset, a sound like the fierce wind of a storm. "Thank you. I'll come then. I know your address." She paused. "I'm sorry I called so late. You probably think I'm a nut, but I'm desperate. Someone needs to do something, and the someone is you. I can't rely on police, they're overloaded."

  He heard a beep as she ended the call and hung up. Making his way back to the bedroom, he dropped the mobile phone on the small table bedside table and plugged it back into the charger. Gypsy groaned quietly, shifting her feet beneath the covers, and then became still again.

  She was out like a light, oblivious to the weird phone call he'd just received.

  He'd assess the woman in person. The last thing he needed was another nut desperate for his help, he’d had his fair share of those in the past. He knew how to pick and choose his clients, even if his mortgage payment loomed. He had some niggling doubts about Elizabeth Metcalfe, particularly as she hadn’t called police to report her sister missing yet. Most families contacted police sooner rather than later, regardless of whether their unlikable in laws worked in law enforcement. If only he hadn't lost the damn insurance contract, he could pick and choose his clients more easily.

  After a trip to the bathroom, he got back into bed and turned off the light.

  He gazed at the ceiling. Sleep evaded him as he tossed and turned, questions running through his mind.

  If the woman's sister had been murdered, why hadn't she called the cops? She'd evaded the question, which meant either she had something to hide, or the grip of near hysteria had taken hold.

  Or, her sister had been murdered and she wouldn't tell the cops for some reason he couldn’t yet figure out.

  Somehow he knew he'd find out in the morning.

  ##

  Monday Morning

  Connor had fallen into the amnesia of sleep minutes after receiving the phone call, which almost removed all traces of the memory of the strange conversation the night before. Almost, but not completely.

  By 9.30 a.m. he’d showered, dressed, had breakfast and helped Gypsy get their son, Mark, ready for day care. Mark wailed, annoyed, probably tired; it wasn't easy being a kid and being hauled around. Gypsy did her best, but they'd both underestimated the time and energy expended caring for an eleven-month-old. It was exhausting. He still remembered the day of Mark’s birth, months after Gypsy’s shooting. The joy, the relief, he’d known the day of Mark’s birth that he and Gypsy would be linked forever by their son.

  After a quick goodbye kiss, and a meaningful look exchanged with Gypsy he watched, as with a sigh she hoisted the scruffy blue bag with its green appliqued giraffe, up from the couch onto her shoulder and shuffled towards the back door.

  The commute from living room to office took less than a minute, which meant he could set his own timetable, on his terms. Even if he was going broke on a slippery slope, the slippery slope was his. He'd rather be broke than a yes man confined by the petty bureaucracy of Victoria Police.

  He waited for Elizabeth Metcalfe at his desk, tapping his pen on the dark wood. He attempted to scrutinize his home office with an objective eye. Despite the daylight, he flicked on the gun metal grey adjustable desk light. He walked around the desk, peering through the net curtains to the garden beyond. Gypsy had helped establish the informal office with a mixture of relief and trepidation after his announcement that his days in blue were over. No more political bullshit.

  Something about the way Elizabeth spoke last night, her strident tone, her insistence that he intervene in the disappearance of her sister, bugged him. She seemed sure of herself for someone that had lost their marbles.

  He also had the evidence back for a previous case, Mrs. Reeves, who'd engaged him to find proof of her husband's adultery. That conversation would be fun.

  As he sank into the heavily cushioned brown office chair, a tapping sound, quiet and tentative, knocked on his door.

  He frowned as he walked back up the three narrow steps to the hallway, walked two steps and paused before opening the main door, allowing entry to his office. A heavy-set woman stood on the second step, wearing a light grey skirt and a blue and white striped blouse with the top two buttons undone. She peered up at him, eyes squinting in the sun, a wisp of hair having emerged from her heavily lacquered do.

  "Come in." Connor took a step back to allow the woman entry.

  Elizabeth Metcalfe looked nothing like he imagined her. She adjusted the strap on her bag as she climbed the steep steps to the place where he stood. She was at least a foot shorter than him, about five foot five.

  She didn't look like a desperate woman, but rather seemed certain of the injustice of the situation judging by the way she squared her shoulders and the grim set of her mouth. She stepped down into the office and stood next to the visitor's chair, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

  "Take a seat," he said as he settled into his chair, and then leaned back to wait.

  He scrutinized her. She glanced around, folding her hands across her handbag as if forming a barrier.

  She had sounded hysterical on the telephone, sure of the person responsible for her sister’s disappearance, having added two and two together to make five. She'd insisted on an appointment the next morning, yet in person she rocketed between various emotions, one moment supremely confident, now unsure, rattled and out of breath.

  "How can I help?" Connor said, conscious of establishing a formal tone, a definitely professional relationship, especially with a potentially unstable client.

  He didn't need a repeat of last month's performance when he'd fended off the advances of a rather busty red head, who'd used the appointment to indulge her fantasies of an affair with a private investigator, more specifically on the desk of his office with the lights dimmed. Although flattering, he wasn't interested in an easy date; he was taken. Cheap, maybe, but definitely not easy. The woman had watched too many private eye serials
and he'd told her to take her late-night fantasies elsewhere, which hadn't been received too well.

  The last thing he needed was trouble, the revocation of his license. His time in law enforcement had included stints of several years on patrol, followed by a move to the drug squad, and then the criminal investigation bureau for the remainder of his career before he’d lost the hunger for police work. He figured when a detective ends up bitter and disillusioned, better to quit than start whining about it.

  "I thought we covered that. I assume you assess your inquiries for interest and relevance?" The skin around her lips puckered as she spoke.

  Connors skin tingled and a heaviness hit his gut. He wouldn't bite. "I do, but I wouldn't have agreed to see you if I didn't think the situation warranted it"

  "So I heard," Elizabeth said, the fingers on her right hand grasping at the fabric of her blouse. "I asked around. Apparently, you're one of the best, after more than a decade of loyal service. Plus, you have abilities which are, shall we say, unusual"

  Shit.

  How the hell did this lunatic find out he was a Sentinel? He'd been careful, and the information had been released on a need-to-know basis. He could count on one hand the people that knew, namely Gypsy, his previous illegitimate daughter Christie, and cop son-in-law, Ryan. All were sworn to secrecy and as far as he knew, they hadn't blabbed. "That information is confidential. I get the job done," Connor said, raising his eyebrow and looking outside through the window next to his desk.

  "So I heard, but this job's a bit different, and I need to know," she said.

  Why did she need to know he was a Sentinel? His abilities meant he could sever a psychic connection between spirits, usually two psychics, sometimes the living and dead, although in recent years, he'd received visions, the last one from a living person. His abilities were always used to protect, to guard where the communication had potential for damage. He was conflicted enough about what he could do, without this random stranger bringing it up as a hidden benefit. If the woman's sister was alive, she'd need to work damn hard to get a message through to him. He’d only been able to receive messages from the living over recent times. Or maybe she was desperate enough, which was a distinct possibility.