PRAISE FOR J. CARSON BLACK
THE SURVIVORS CLUB
“An utterly engrossing thriller. The Survivors Club grips us from the very start and simply doesn’t let go. The novel seamlessly achieves that rarity in crime fiction: making our palms sweat while bringing the characters and their stories straight into our hearts. Bravo!”
—Jeffery Deaver, New York Times bestselling author of The Kill Room
“Welcome to The Survivors Club—where cheating death just once may not be enough. J. Carson Black’s latest thriller takes you into a whirlpool of conspiracy, blackmail, and betrayal, where no one can be sure who is the hunter and who is the prey—a game of blood whose outcome may leave no survivors.”
—Michael Prescott, author of Cold Around the Heart
“J. Carson Black’s The Survivors Club is a twisted, diabolical cat-and-mouse game that will keep you riveted.”
—CJ Lyons, New York Times bestselling author of Hollow Bones
“Black serves up a breezy thriller with a killer premise: What if people who cheated death once weren’t so lucky the second time around? By the time the plot snakes through twist after twist, you’ll be asking yourself . . . do you feel lucky?”
—Brian Freeman, bestselling author of Spilled Blood
“J. Carson Black delivers desert heat with her latest cool thriller, The Survivors Club. Detective Tess McCrae shows us again why she’s the southwest’s top cop.”
—Alan Jacobson, national bestselling author of No Way Out
THE SHOP
“The Shop is a hair-raising thriller from start to finish. With a complex plot and finely drawn characters, J. Carson Black draws the reader into a world where nothing is as it seems. This book is both spooky and convincing, just what a thriller should be.”
—T. Jefferson Parker, New York Times bestselling author of The Jaguar
“I’m a big fan of J. Carson Black and The Shop is a truly original nonstop locomotive ride of a thriller. You won’t even think of putting this book down.”
—John Lescroart, New York Times bestselling author of The Hunter
“Fresh and imaginative, J. Carson Black’s The Shop is a riveting read and a compelling tale of character. From FBI agents to local cops, from heroes to villains, The Shop is an exciting, sweeping thriller that will linger in your mind for a long time.”
—Gayle Lynds, New York Times bestselling author of The Book of Spies
“Infused with an original voice and packed with compelling characters, J. Carson Black’s The Shop is a thriller to pay attention to.”
—David Morrell, New York Times bestselling author of The Brotherhood of the Rose
ALSO BY J. CARSON BLACK
The Survivors Club
Icon
The Shop
Darkness on the Edge of Town
Dark Side of the Moon
The Laura Cardinal Novels (Omnibus)
The Devil’s Hour
Cry Wolf
Roadside Attraction
Writing as Margaret Falk
Dark Horse
Darkscope
The Desert Waits
Deadly Desert (Omnibus)
Writing as Annie McKnight
The Tombstone Rose
Superstitions
Short Stories
The Bluelight Special
Pony Rides
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2014 J. Carson Black
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477825136
ISBN-10: 1477825134
Cover design by theBookDesigners
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014937366
To John Peters, my MVP, whose remarkable knowledge, expertise, wit, and intelligence were invaluable assets in the writing of this book
- and -
To my dear friend and mentor, Maynard Allington, a fine man, a beautiful writer, and a stalwart champion. You are in my heart.
CONTENTS
- In Memoriam -
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
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- In Memoriam -
Four dead.
Every day, no matter how busy he was—and he was up to his ears in busy right now—he made himself look at the crime scene photos.
After that first year, it had gotten so that he could look at them without emotion. A cop friend of his had cadged the photos for him. They had been friends since Baghdad. Different branches of the military, different areas of expertise, yet somehow they had forged a friendship in that godforsaken hellhole.
What were the odds?
The youngest of the three victims was a towhead. Even in death his hair stuck up like a dandelion—the part that wasn’t drenched in blood, anyway.
He was a good kid. He’d been underqualified for the job, that was true, but it wasn’t his fault. Someone should have made that call for him.
He went back through the photos, all six of them. The floor, the open door to the bedroom, the legs and feet and shoes on the other body, intruding into the frame.
The blood.
A nicked carotid artery. A broken neck.
Not one or the other, but both.
There were three dead men in the house.
The fourth had died separately, days later.
If he’d died at all . . .
CHAPTER 1
Barbara Carey didn’t know what to make of her best employee.
Joe Till had been here at the farm for nearly six months. He was good with horses. Very good with horses. The kind of guy you could trust to do what you asked. You could go away and leave them in his care and they would be fine. Not just fine, but better than fine.
She’d been looking for a foreman but took Joe Till on as hired help. He had no references, but she could tell he knew his way around a horse. She had tested him by handing over t
he lead rope to the colt she had been taking back to the barn. The colt was high-strung and had a tendency to bear in on people, from leaning on them to running them over—a very bad habit. The man handled him like a pro. He was strong and authoritative without being angry. The colt backed down and followed Till to the barn and walked right in. Not exactly horse whisperer stuff, but he was definitely experienced.
And he was decent looking in a rugged kind of way. Her long-dead father’s favorite movie was Shane, and this man reminded her of the film’s title character. He had an air of mystery about him, as if he’d lived a tough life. There was a small scar above his upper lip. Could have happened with horses but she didn’t think so. He seemed levelheaded, although he gave the impression he would fight back if someone tried to crowd him.
Regarding the foreman position she’d put in the newspaper and on the Internet, there had been no takers—she wasn’t offering a lot of money—and so eventually Joe Till ended up filling a foreman’s shoes. Barbara still ran the ad in the paper on and off, but wasn’t really looking anymore. Joe Till wasn’t just good with the two-year-olds, he had an eye for them. He knew what they were going to do before they did it. He knew them cold, every single one of them, as if he had read their most secret diaries. He understood their potential or lack thereof.
Somewhere along the line he had clocked hours, days, weeks, months, and years to be able to handle horses this way.
Somewhere.
She found herself relying on his advice more and more. What do you think of this colt? What do you think about this race for the filly’s first start? Do you think this boy will ever make a racehorse, or should we cull him?
Saying “we.”
If she’d just met him, say at Hollywood Park or Santa Anita, she would have thought he was an assistant trainer to one of the Big Guys.
So . . . how’d she get so lucky?
Joe was no spring chicken. Barbara guessed he was in his mid- to late forties, and a beat-up-looking mid- to late forties at that. Good looking, although she wasn’t really sure about this, because if she tried to picture his face right now, she wouldn’t be able to.
He was the kind of guy who would never stand out in a crowd, except for his height. He was tall. He wore the uniform of the men who worked around horses: knit polo shirt, jeans, a ball cap with the farm’s name on it, and tennis shoes. Gum boots when it was muddy.
He drove an old, beat-up Dodge Ram.
Joe Till didn’t seem to have any bad habits. He didn’t drink. He didn’t smoke. He didn’t act lascivious with her or the women she worked with. He liked the room she gave him just fine, washed the dishes after she cooked up dinner, used his own hot plate when she wasn’t in the mood to cook. That first day, Barb was surprised he had only one big duffle, which went with the fact he was former military. Couldn’t miss that. Her two brothers were former military.
He was the kind of guy you’d see at the racetrack or on a breeding farm or at a training center all the time.
A horseman with a forgettable face.
Except his face had been transformed to handsome somewhere along the line.
Maybe around the time she’d first slept with him.
Barbara lay in the crook of Joe Till’s arm. The birds had just started up, mourning doves mostly, and the golden Santa Ysabel light stole across the bright green pastures and into her room.
Their room.
She felt as if she were lying in the arms of a giant bear. She’d been on her own for a century, it seemed, but here with Joe, Barbara felt something she hadn’t felt for so long.
She felt feminine.
His breathing rose and fell as if he were asleep.
But she knew he wasn’t asleep. She knew he was awake and alert.
There was something preternatural about the way he could lie still, appear to be asleep, but never was. He’d told her he “slept with one eye open” and she believed him. Both her brothers were like that. There was a wariness to them both, as if they were always expecting someone to shoot at them from over the next hill.
Her younger brother Ben had suffered, though—nightmares, getting fired from jobs, drinking and drugs. Lots of problems. But her other brother was fine.
Don’t overthink. Joe Till’s the best man you ever met.
She moved in his arms and he stirred.
“I have a surprise for you,” she said.
“Oh?” His smile looked lazy, but it wasn’t. She didn’t know how to think of it other than that. He trailed a finger along the hollow of her neck and she shivered with pleasure.
She had her own gift to bestow. “How would you like to go to Santa Anita?” She rushed the next words. “I need someone I can trust, and I can’t go. Cousin Ginny’s wedding. So I thought you could . . .”
He straightened his right arm, looked down at her, and smiled.
“No thanks.”
For a moment she wondered if her jaw had cracked loose from her face and fallen to the pillow. “But this is a big deal.”
He said nothing.
“It could lead to, I mean someday, not right away, you could . . . work your way up to trainer.”
She was surprised by the words as they tumbled out of her mouth, but she’d been thinking it.
“Honestly,” she added, “I know it’s a surprise. But I mean it. I’m not just saying it.”
He said nothing.
“I’ve already talked to Peter. It’s all set. I want you to take six of our two-year-olds to Santa Anita.”
Midnight Auto, Pussycat Doll, Mexican Lucky, Chillax, Nowhere Man, and A Whiskey Girl.
“It’s all worked out. I arranged for you to get your license. I want to make you assistant trainer.”
He said nothing.
This was not going the way she thought it would. “You can come down on your days off. Ginny and Rod will be back soon and they can take over the everyday work on the farm and I can stay weekends . . .”
She became aware of his stillness. Then he said, “Barbara, I’m not going to Santa Anita.”
She saw his lips move. Heard the words. Thought: This is crazy! What is wrong with you? Here’s your chance! This could make you. This could make you be someone I could fall in love with.
Did she say it out loud?
No.
But he was looking at her as if he’d heard her say it. As if he’d read her mind.
The lining of her mouth suddenly felt thick. She swallowed. “I’m not, I didn’t mean . . .”
He smiled. “That’s okay. I’m not offended.”
He continued to caress her jaw.
She shouldn’t have been so pushy. Intimating that he was somehow inadequate because he was a drifter. Even though he was a drifter. “What I meant to say was—”
“Shhhhhhh,” he said.
His finger trailing along her jaw and down into the hollow of her throat.
And suddenly, she was scared.
He was former military. Sometimes they came back broken. Most times, in her experience. His body was hard—honed—almost as if he was a weapon kept sharp.
Silly.
But his hyperawareness. She had to admit, sometimes that spooked her.
Abruptly, she felt as if she were walking down a dark road at night all alone, and headlights appeared in the distance. The sight of the headlights—the thought of who might be on that road coming her way—caused a tiny stab of fear. The kind you were embarrassed by and you said to yourself, Don’t be silly.
That was what it felt like.
He gently traced the hollow of her throat. “It’s okay,” he said.
“Okay?” Her own voice faint in her ears.
“Okay.”
Abruptly, she did feel silly. In fact, she felt ridiculous.
He was Joe, her Joe.
She said, “If
you don’t want to go, that’s fine, too. But—”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “Thanks,” he said, “but no thanks.”
“Can you at least tell me why?”
“Because I don’t want to. Isn’t that a good enough reason?”
But it’s Santa Anita.
He seemed to read her thoughts. “I like it here just fine.”
Then he kissed her on the lips, and before she knew it, they were making love.
The dark lonely road, the headlights in the distance, were forgotten.
CHAPTER 2
It took the man Barbara Carey knew as Joe Till an average of one hour and forty-five minutes to drive from the horse farm north of Santa Ysabel to Gordon C. Tuttle High School on Forrest Avenue.
That included swapping vehicles.
He drove to his rented town house and parked the Dodge Ram in the closed two-car garage, swapping it out for a Ford Econoline. The town house was on a quiet street where everyone seemed to either work days or stay inside their townhomes—he’d never seen another soul here.
He kept another van at another town house on another street just like this one, only that town house was in Lake View Terrace.
He drove the six city blocks to the high school.
The school he was going to was located in a recently incorporated area east of LA called Torrent Valley. He made the trip five days a week.
Like most teenagers, seventeen-year-old Kristal Landry was a creature of habit. Her last class let out at three p.m. She walked out to her car parked by the chain-link fence facing the football field. She always parked in the same spot or one or two spots on either side, not far from a massive California pepper tree.
If he could trace her movements, so could someone else.
He watched through binoculars through a vertical metal flap at the back of his van as Kristal walked out to her car.
He knew how much the 2011 Toyota Yaris cost new. He would have chosen another car—larger and heavier—but making choices for Kristal was no longer his job. He wasn’t crazy about the color, either—“Yellow Jolt”—but young girls were attracted to bright colors. Yellow and red were accident colors. They also attracted attention. A pretty girl in a cute yellow car could be a draw for some kinds of people. But he had to leave it to Kristal and her mom.
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