MARK KANE MYSTERIES
BOOK FIVE
MISSING
Copyright © 2015 by John Hemmings
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by MKM Enterprises
Cover by Octagon
Special thanks to Kanell Speirs for her helpful advice & editorial assistance
Table of Contents
About the Author
THE MARK KANE MYSTERIES SERIES...SO FAR
FULL CHAPTER HEADINGS
Preface
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Book Six
A Word from the Author
Book One: Forget Me Not
Book Two: Ice
Book Three: The Black Widow
Book Four: Till Death
Book Five: Missing
Book Six: I Spy
Book Seven: A Tangled Web
About the Author
John Hemmings is a lawyer and writer of crime fiction with a one hundred percent record - none of his clients have been executed...yet! Some of his stories are suggested by cases he has been involved with, but some of the names have been changed to protect the innocent - or sometimes the guilty!
Each of his books features Boston private investigator Mark Kane, or simply Kane as he is known to most people, and his longtime companion Lucy - a slightly oddball couple with a somewhat unconventional relationship.
"I write for enjoyment - the sort of books that I hope have broad appeal in the mystery/detective genre; the kind of books I like to read myself - and as a family man I write for all ages - the sex private (even private eyes like a bit of privacy!), the language tempered. Take a look at those movies from the thirties and forties: Edward G. Robinson, Cagney, Bogart. The lack of strong language didn't take away anything from the air of menace those guys exuded. Of course, they wouldn't have talked like that in real life; but then a movie or a novel is not 'real life'.
"I have used my experience to make the stories as authentic as possible, although these books are intended as entertainments, so a little 'poetic license' is sometimes necessary. As for 'character development', this is a series told in real time. While each book is a standalone story, as my readers progress through the books more is gradually revealed about my protagonist and his sidekick. My readers sometimes ask me what Kane & Lucy look like; but as to their physical appearance well, that's the beauty of books over movies - they look just like each reader imagines they look."
Find out more or contact the author at http://johnhemmings.net/contact
THE MARK KANE MYSTERIES SERIES...SO FAR
‘Sometimes, when one person is missing, the whole world seems depopulated’ − Alphonse de Lamartine
For Catherine & Glen
FULL CHAPTER HEADINGS
Chapter One: Panic
Chapter Two: A Double Celebration
Chapter Three: The Cat and the Client
Chapter Four: A Free Sprit
Chapter Five: Springfield
Chapter Six: Jacky
Chapter Seven: Tommy
Chapter Eight: Jillian
Chapter Nine: The Tape
Chapter Ten: Regenerators
Chapter Eleven: Go Forth and Multiply
Chapter Twelve: The Best Laid Plans
Chapter Thirteen: A New Development
Chapter Fourteen: Clinton
Chapter Fifteen: Vicky
Chapter Sixteen: The Moment of Truth
Chapter Seventeen: The Red Market
Chapter Eighteen: The Awakening
Chapter Nineteen: The Crombies
Chapter Twenty: A Fruitless Search
Chapter Twenty One: Epiphany
Chapter Twenty Two: The Girl in the Basement
Chapter Twenty Three: The Escape
Chapter Twenty Four: The Ranch House
Chapter Twenty Five: Dr. Fooks
Chapter Twenty Six: Charlie
Chapter Twenty Seven: Bad News
Chapter Twenty Eight: The House on Farm Road
Chapter Twenty Nine: Honorary Scouts
Chapter Thirty: The Complaint
A Word from the Author
Mark Kane Mysteries Series
Book One: Forget Me Not
Book Two: Ice
Book Three: The Black Widow
Book Four: Till Death
Book Five: Missing
Book Six: I Spy
Book Seven: A Tangled Web
Preface
In writing this series I think it only fair to acknowledge my debt to that master of the detective genre, Raymond Chandler. Whilst I could never hope to produce narratives of such accomplishment, nor produce such a memorable hero as Philip Marlowe, in writing this series of novels I have nevertheless tried to be true to Mr. Chandler’s concept of what a private detective novel should comprise. I have adopted his famous guidelines, not simply because I admire him as a peerless writer of private detective crime fiction but because I believe they truly encapsulate everything that a good crime novel should be, namely:
It should be credibly motivated, both as to the original situation and the dénouement.
It should be technically sound as to the methods of murder and detection.
It should be realistic in character, setting and atmosphere. It must be about real people in a real world.
It should have a sound story value apart from the mystery element: i.e., the investigation itself must be an adventure worth reading.
It should have enough essential simplicity to be explained easily when the time comes.
It must baffle a reasonably intelligent reader.
The solution must seem inevitable once revealed.
It should not try to do everything at once. If it is a puzzle story operating in a rather cool, reasonable atmosphere, it cannot also be a violent adventure or a passionate romance.
It must punish the criminal in one way or another; not necessarily by operation of the law, but if the detective fails to resolve the conse
quences of the crime, the story is an unresolved chord and leaves irritation behind it.
It must be honest with the reader.
As for the hero, Chandler also had firm views. The morality of the detective is paramount. In his essay, ‘The Simple Art of Murder’, he wrote: ‘Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. The detective in this kind of story must be such a man. He is the hero; he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor – by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world’.
If Mr. Chandler were alive today it is doubtful that he would be impressed by my clumsy attempts at writing crime fiction, but I hope he would be satisfied with my attempts to carry on a fine tradition.
Chapter One
Panic
Although the moon was full, a thick blanket of cloud and driving rain filtered the light into no more than a faint, misty glow as the girl broke out of the huckleberry scrub and ran stumbling across the meadow. She was dressed in dark-blue jeans, a black T-shirt and trainers, all sodden by the relentless rain. An observer close enough to the girl would have been able to make out the words she was breathlessly whispering urgently to herself as she ran.
“Keep going…don’t stop…careful, watch out…don’t fall…don’t look back…keep going…”
The ground beneath her feet was uneven, and the coppery glow of the bluestems, the subtle purple of the alfalfa and the dark green crab-grass had been reduced to no more than dark shadows by the overcast night sky. As she ran she tried to avoid the clumpy knolls of big bluestem, but her eyes were focused on a line of trees about a thousand yards ahead of her. She was panting heavily and a sharp pain was gnawing inside her chest, but the sight of the distant trees gave renewed impetus to her flight. As she tried to calculate how long it would take her to reach the relative sanctuary of the woods she momentarily lost concentration and she stumbled and fell onto her knees, her outstretched hands breaking her fall.
For a few moments she stayed on all-fours, listening for sounds of pursuit; but the only sound was the steady beating of the rain on the brush and the noise of her own breathing as she struggled to pull air into her lungs. She stood, bent forward, her hands on her thighs, trying to catch her breath. Then she stood upright and brushed her long dark hair back with both hands, leaving muddy streaks across her forehead. She started to run again, muttering whispered words of encouragement to herself.
*
It was almost an hour since Catherine and Glen Crombie had left the highway to escape a massive backup caused by a traffic accident. A truck had jack-knifed and they had a distant view of flashing lights and the emergency workers surrounding the stricken vehicle, the pale, milky moonlight glistening on their yellow oilskins. Glen had taken an almost instant decision and executed a U-turn across the median, located an exit ramp and then doubled back along a small road which appeared to run alongside the highway, but gradually veered away from it. Neither of them had any idea where they were headed now and scant idea of the direction in which they were traveling. The ageing Ford didn’t have the luxury of a GPS and the radio was broken. The situation was not conducive to friendly chitchat.
“We should’ve stayed on the highway,” Catherine said. “At least we knew where we were back then.”
“We’d have been there hours Cath, probably all night.”
“We’ve been driving for almost an hour now, and we don’t even know where we’re going.”
“At least we’re moving.”
“Maybe we should pull over, take a look at the map.”
“We don’t have a map,” Glen said. “I didn’t think we were going to need one.”
“Maybe you should leave the thinking up to me in future,” Catherine said. “I don’t know why we even bothered to leave tonight. We already knew the weather was going to be dreadful.”
“You know I have to be at the quarterly meeting tomorrow afternoon,” Glen said. “This trip has been a disaster – a washout in more ways than one. They’re going to want an explanation. Unless I can come up with a satisfactory one I could be out of a job by the end of the month.”
“Well for God’s sake, if we see a motel, any motel, let’s stop for the night. The place we passed a few miles back would’ve been okay.”
“Okay, the next one.”
Glen was a salesman of universal joints and couplings for an engineering company in Arkansas. He’d been a salesman all his life. He prided himself that he could sell pretty much anything to pretty much anybody so long as the product was well-manufactured and competitively priced; but in the final analysis a salesman was only as good as the products he sold.
There was no internet and no emails when Glen started out. Back in the day it was all about the personal touch. He’d been successful for much of his career because his customers knew they could trust him. There was no bull – if the quality of the products he sold wasn’t as good as those of his competitors he didn’t pretend otherwise. Good salesmanship was often about compromise – there were factors other than product quality to consider: a combination of price, reliability, fitness for purpose and the assurance that the contract would be fulfilled exactly as promised. He’d built a reputation with his clients based on mutual trust. He’d personally oversee the execution of his contracts and act as trouble-shooter if any problems arose later. But things were different now. Glib young salesmen with no principles sold products to unsuspecting customers that were often unsuitable for the job. The growth of the internet had extended the reach of companies like the one that employed him now. It was all about sales volume, cutting corners, getting a fix. He wasn’t encouraged to meet his customers anymore − that took up too much valuable time.
This assignment had been different though. He’d been sent to Iowa to try and salvage a contract that had been dealt with by another salesman. The product the customer had agreed to purchase simply wasn’t suitable for its intended purpose without a significant adjustment which would make the deal uneconomic. Glen had been sent to try and sort out the mess even though it wasn’t his client. There was no valid argument to counter the customer’s complaint so Glen had been told to reach a compromise by negotiating a reduction in price for the components; even if he had to negotiate a price that cut their profit margin to next-to-nothing he must ensure that the contract was saved. But when Glen saw the detailed specifications for the job he knew the product simply wasn’t suitable – at any price – and he wasn’t prepared to sacrifice his integrity to pretend otherwise; so the contract would be cancelled. Glen doubted if the new head of sales, a young college graduate with zero experience in salesmanship, knew how to spell the word integrity.
The road was dark, lined by woodland on either side, and there was little illumination from the moon. Sheets of rain, leaves, small twigs and other debris were being driven into the windshield by gusts of wind and visibility on the road ahead was poor.
*
As the girl reached the edge of the trees she stopped again. The canopy of branches and leaves had prevented much of the rain from soaking the ground and she winced as she stepped on a twig; the sound of it breaking made her freeze. She looked back across the meadow. There was no sound other than the rain beating against the leaves above her and no sign of pursuit. It was hard to tell how far she’d come, and she had no watch to tell her how long she’d been running. The woodland was quite dense and so she moved forward warily. It was dark and she was afraid to fall. She continued at a fast walking pace, peering in front of her to try and gauge what lay ahead.
The pain in her chest gradually subsided as she walked, and her renewed confidence encouraged her to jog between the trees, but her legs felt like jelly and she slowed to a walk again. Then ahead she saw a light. Was it a house? No, it was moving. It was
a vehicle. There was a road ahead. The light disappeared from view. As she pressed forward she peered through the trees trying to catch another glimpse of light, but there was none. It was late, and the heavy rain had probably kept most people indoors, she thought. But it was a road. Somebody would come eventually. Somebody would help her.
After several minutes she reached the edge of the woods and by the dim light of the moon she could see the rain glistening on the tarmac. She walked to the side of the road. She looked in both directions but could see no lights; but there was no point in going any further − across the road were more trees. She walked a few paces back to the trees behind her to get some cover from the rain, and after a few minutes she saw some lights heading towards her from the left. She stepped forward to the edge of the road and started waving frantically. She was wearing dark clothes – would the driver be able to see her? The car seemed to slow as it came towards her. She stepped out into the road waving her hands in front of her.
*
They’d left the city just before six and had intended to stop for a rest and something to eat on the way. Glen was getting hungry now and the concentration needed as he drove through the rain and darkness was making him tired. Catherine had fallen asleep beside him. Many years before he’d briefly nodded off while driving. He’d simply tried to drive too far and for too long. He’d been on his own in the car on that occasion and had veered off the road. He’d been aware of being tired and had lowered the windows to let in some air, but he fell asleep anyway. Fortunately, he’d awoken almost instantly as his car bounced off a guard rail at the side of the road, but the memory of what might have been a fatal accident had never left him. He was older now and he didn’t want to take a risk. He slowed the vehicle, took a deep breath and pressed ahead. He had seen no sign of habitation for miles and hadn’t even glimpsed tail lights ahead or headlights behind him. But as he slowed he saw a shadow move out of the trees and onto the road. It was directly in his path, not two hundred feet ahead. His foot hit the brake hard and the car veered to the left. He could feel the rear end of the old Packard swinging round as he tried to straighten the car and prevent it from skidding, but he was on the shadow before he could stop.
Missing - Mark Kane Mysteries - Book Five: A Private Investigator Crime Series of Murder, Mystery, Suspense & Thriller Stories...with a dash of Romance. A Murder Mystery & Suspense Thriller Page 1
