by Jade Powers
All My Strength
By
Jade
Powers
Table of Contents
Title Page
All My Strength | Copyright July 12, 2018 Jade Powers | All rights reserved. Written permission from the author must be secured to use or reproduce any part of this book except for brief excerpts to provide critical review or articles. | The characters and settings in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or locations is coincidental.
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 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
The End
Chapter 1
All My Strength
Copyright July 12, 2018 Jade Powers
All rights reserved. Written permission from the author must be secured to use or reproduce any part of this book except for brief excerpts to provide critical review or articles.
The characters and settings in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or locations is coincidental.
THE MILE HIGH CLUB
Book 1: In My Heart
Book 2: On My Mind
Book 3: In My Life
Book 4: With My Soul
Book 5: All My Strength
Book 6: All My Passion
Special Email Only: On My Honor
Certain images and/or photos on this page are the copyrighted property of 123RF Limited, their Contributors or Licensed Partners and are being used with permission under license. These images and/or photos may not be copied or downloaded without permission from 123RF
Copyright:
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Chapter 1
~~ WILKERSON, ARIZONA June 2000 ~~
Wendy flipped the ‘on’ button to her husband’s computer. She should have done this months ago. The motorcycle accident that took John’s life shattered Wendy’s spirit. For at least three months, she drove to work, drove home, watched an hour of television while eating dinner out of a box, and then fell asleep.
Mourning hibernation. That was what Wendy called it. The mortgage was paid, but the plan to quit her job and become a full time caterer died with her husband. She just didn’t have the energy to devote herself to a new venture. She needed John’s encouragement, his strength, and sometimes his logic.
Wendy didn’t even know where to start. Her best friend, Temper, was a god send. Without her closest friend and confidant, Wendy would have stayed in bed for the rest of the year, unwilling to face the world.
Temper spent the two weeks after John’s death acting as Wendy’s support, doing all of those things that Wendy should have done, but didn’t have the energy or mental capacity to complete. At least she was the original bill-payer and chief organizer of their financial records. Wendy couldn’t imagine stepping into a role like that without knowing what was paid and not paid for the month. The hole John left didn’t include confusion about bills, only confusion of the spirit. But it was still a ragged and giant hole that would take a long time to heal.
A few more months passed, and Wendy started changing things around the house, just little things. Removing John’s favorite coffee mug from the cupboard. Throwing away the ratty baseball hat cap he left on the dresser before that last fatal trip.
Yesterday, when she finally decided to sort his clothes and donate them to local charity, she found a note buried in his sock and underwear drawer. It was addressed to her.
In the note, he alluded to his death. The note read:
Dear Wendy,
I fear for my life. I’m sorry for leaving you alone. I love you and would not have risked myself except for the horrible things that I saw. If you find this and I am dead, check the file on my computer marked “Vacation Photos”. The password is Windy83???. If you find this and I am not dead, please don’t worry. I’m sure it’s nothing. I have passed these files to three people: Agent Mack Striker with the FBI, Corin Blythe, you’ve met him, and Carrie Meade, a Captain in the army. If anything happens to me, get in touch with these people.
I love you more than words can say,
John
WENDY HAD LEFT JOHN’S home office untouched since his death, ever since the policemen stood on her porch and asked if they could come inside, ever since they rewrote her life in a few sentences. She would never kiss John again, never hug him goodbye, nor make him breakfast in bed. She would not hold his hand on a walk through the park. Nothing would be the same.
But she shut that door and somehow with the room closed, she could pretend that John was just beyond that door. He had to be alive somewhere. He had to be. It didn’t make sense that the world could just continue without him.
She didn’t check his email. It would hurt too much to see people asking, “John, where are you?” Some of them would eventually realize that he was never going to answer again.
She went straight for the file marked ‘vacation photos’. As mentioned in his note, the file existed. It opened with the password John had scribbled in that note. Wendy’s heart caught in her chest when she read the words, human experimentation. The file included pictures of the site, an explanation of the technology, blue prints, and top secret files that John had scanned with dates, locations, and names.
Feeling sick to her stomach, Wendy copied the file onto a floppy. Then she copied it again and again until she had seven floppies. The content in that file was damning. The motorcycle accident made a lot more sense now. They said that John had dumped his bike off the road into a bunch of trees. His blood alcohol came back zero and no one could figure out how the accident had occurred. It made sense to Wendy now...someone had murdered her husband.
WENDY’S BEST FRIEND, Temper Crow worked at Basset’s Bar off of I-17. They had been buddies since high school. Temper’s given name was Teresa, but over the course of the last decade, she had remade herself into one tough chick. No one could even believe that sweet Wendy Bartlett was best friends with Temper Crow.
“Hey, Girl, what can I get you?” Temper had jet black hair and almond eyes. Her features were striking. She made a killing in tips, and didn’t even have to schmooze the customers. As a matter of fact, Temper had found that brusque worked just as well.
“Ginger ale and some of those world-famous jojo’s,” Wendy said. She picked a bar stool at least three seats away from anyone else and wore her wedding ring, not that a clear signal stopped everybody. She added, “What time do you get off? I need to talk to you.”
“You’ve got a long wait. I’m closing the bar tonight.” Temper poured the ginger ale while she spoke, and then grabbed a straw. Her smile was genuine, but Temper had been a little more talkative this past year, checking in at least once a week. Sometimes Wendy couldn’t bear the company and let her phone go to voicemail. Sometimes she didn’t even call back, but Temper took it all in stride.
“Darn. I was hoping to talk to you. What about brunch tomorrow at eleven o’clock at O’Shea’s Breakfast Cafe? I’ll buy.” Wendy sipped her ginger ale. The cool fizz calmed her frazzled ne
rves, although it would also rev her up. Wendy probably wouldn’t sleep tonight, not after a soda.
“You’ll do no such thing. I can pay my own way, thank you very much,” Temper said. The guy at the end of the bar waved at Temper. Switching gears with hardly a stutter, Temper poured the man another rum and coke, grabbed Wendy’s jojo’s from the cook’s counter, and with a smile said, “Eleven o’clock it is. Thanks for letting me sleep in.”
It was a joke between the two. Back when Temper was first working the job, she and Wendy would plan on Sunday breakfast at eight. But then Temper would get off work at two or three and end up severely regretting her plans. When Wendy married, their friendship faded. It didn’t weaken...it was just put on temporary hold. Instead of meeting weekly, the friends met every six months.
“No problem. I’d like to show you something at my house after. It’s really important.” Wendy wanted to tell Temper about the file. Even though Temper was working, even though half a dozen people sat in close enough proximity to hear what she might say, the knowledge that her husband was murdered sat on the tip of her tongue waiting to be released. Wendy held it back by sheer force of will. It burned her soul like a cattle brand.
But not tonight. Not with all these people nursing their drinks. John deserved better than to be the gossip of a bunch of eavesdroppers from the small town where they lived. Word got around. If Wendy said anything within hearing distance of the bar, it would be all over town in two days time.
Temper picked up an empty basket from in front of one of the guys and said, “If it’s that important, you know I’ll be there.”
“It is, and thank you.”
“So...no hint? You’re being awfully mysterious here.” Temper teased.
“It’s not something I feel comfortable talking about in a crowd like this,” Wendy said. She could just see Temper guessing and discarding guesses in her head.
Finally Temper sighed. “Guess I’ll find out tomorrow.”
Wendy ate her jojos. Back when John was alive, she had cooked dinner for him on weekdays. He had kitchen duty on Saturday and Sunday. Back then, she ate healthy, got lots of fruits and veggies, and their meals were well-rounded. Now she could barely bring herself to grab a bag of chips out of the cupboard. Nothing tasted good. She could sit hungry. The pain of losing John superceded hunger. When she did eat, she binged on junk food. She didn’t even care about health anymore.
When she finished, Wendy gave Temper a great tip and said, “See you tomorrow.”
THE NEXT MORNING, WENDY and Temper met at O’Shea’s. It was a small diner with home style cooking that put every other restaurant to shame. From home-made biscuits to a superb country gravy, O’Shea’s was the perfect place to take a best friend.
Temper slid into the booth. Her hair was pulled back into a pony tail and there were circles under her eyes. Once they had both ordered and the waitress was out of hearing shot, Temper leaned forward and said, “There’s no one around. Can you tell me what this is about? It’s driving me batty.”
Wendy glanced at the surrounding tables. No one would overhear. Unlike the bar, there weren’t a dozen people in hearing distance, and she could actually speak quietly and Temper would hear. In a low voice she said, “John has files that implicate at least a dozen high profile people in human trafficking and experimentation. I think someone murdered him.”
“Holy hell,” Temper’s mouth dropped open and she looked a little wild. If anyone could help Wendy navigate the dangers of this treacherous discovery, it would be Temper. She closed her mouth, and her eyes bore a touch of pity and a hint of anger. Temper said, “We need to do this right. Get this in front of as many eyes as possible before they figure out that you have the information.”
Wendy felt a lump of fear hovering at her breast bone. Once she released the information, it could well make her a target. And the corporations John dealt with specialized in burying state secrets. She said, “I’m hoping that if I take it to the officer who investigated John’s death, and send a few copies around, I’d be okay.”
Looking worried, Temper stirred the ice in her water. She thought for a moment, then leaned in with a whisper, “This is huge. You’re talking about the biggest scandal of the century. If someone is actually experimenting on people and the government covered it up, that’s a career killer.”
Wendy felt sick. She said, “I know.”
Temper was known for plans. She liked to make long lists and outlines, color coded and in meticulous detail. Half the time, she didn’t even use them. The other half of the time, she went off plan anyway. But Wendy needed all the help she could get.
Grabbing a notebook from her purse, Temper started a list. In a quiet voice she said, “Okay, first, who did John trust?”
Wendy gave Temper the three names in John’s note. She said, “He worked for McFarland, but he was close to Drake Ward and Carson Nichols. He had been working for Drake for years before Drake sold the company. They both came to the funeral. He liked Bill over at the auto shop, but I don’t think we should involve him in something like this. Plus, Drake just got married so let’s not bother him.
Temper bit her nail while she scribbled out Bill’s name. She frowned, “I don’t think we should remove Drake. From everything you’ve told me, he may have insight into your husband’s death.”
“We can leave him on the list. I’m still not sure about calling him. I’ll send it around to all of the law enforcement agencies for sure.”
“Probably the safest route,” Temper added the FBI, Department of Justice, Attorney General, local police, and the Department of Defense to her list. With a sigh, she said, “Maybe we could hire an attorney to send this on our behalf, kind of like an intermediary.”
“And if the attorney I pick sells us out, then no one will ever hear of this. They’ll scrub it and hush it up and kill me in the process.” Wendy loved the idea of shuffling this off to someone else. But she couldn’t risk the chance that something this big would fall through the cracks. She frowned at the three names. She said, “John’s friends didn’t do anything with this information. I mean, wouldn’t we have heard it on the news or something?”
Temper scribbled the thought down. She said, “You’re right. I’ll research that angle. In the meantime, will you send copies of your findings to everyone on the list? It should happen fast. When you do this, it will be like juggling live grenades.”
“That’s a visual I don’t need,” Wendy said. She smiled in spite of herself.
“It has to be all at once. Otherwise, someone might target you. You should call the people you think John trusted most,” Temper said.
“Drake and Carson are the only ones I know he trusted with his life. He worked for McFarland, but their working relationship was only a few months old,” Wendy said. She didn’t know if Drake or Carson would care about her as John’s widow. She’d only met them once when John was alive, and then the second time at his funeral.
“John may have trusted the wrong person. That’s also something to consider. How do you feel about putting this out there? Once you do, it may be impossible to go back.” Temper said.
“If John’s death was truly murder, they will target me. No question.” Wendy rubbed her forehead, feeling older than her thirty-five years. She was too old to start over and too young for her life to be finished. But if John was murdered, she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life hiding and pretending that it was just a bad accident.
“You know I’m with you, no matter what.” Temper said.
Wendy would have felt better about that statement if it didn’t also mean that Wendy’s actions could affect her best friend. Still, she appreciated the gesture. Wendy said, “Thanks. I don’t think I would have made it through all this without you.”
The waitress brought their breakfasts. Temper and Wendy ate with gusto, temporarily shelving their discussion. The dull ache that accompanied Wendy everywhere she went reminded her that John would not be drinking coffee in his ar
mchair while watching the news or sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop. She wondered when the hurt would stop.
The worst part was that when Wendy was with Temper and hurting, she just wanted to go home and be alone and cry. It was too much to bear to be in company out in public with people talking and laughing when the hole in her heart was too huge to overcome. But then when she was home, she felt so alone and wanted nothing more than to go out and be with people and forget.
If only there was a pill for amnesia. Wendy wondered if she would take it. Maybe if it was temporary, she would. Maybe she would choose to forget John just to feel happy again. She would chase his note to its conclusion and find out what had happened to her husband.
John’s computer contained too much information to ignore. He had bet his life that no one knew he was collecting that evidence. Wendy was about to double down on the bet that killed her husband, and she wasn’t feeling too confident.
Chapter 2
THE FLOPPY DISKS WENT out to a dozen different agencies. As much as possible, Wendy sent the copies to specific individuals, sometimes two in the same agency. Her days were much the same. She went to work at the tiny grocery store on Main for six hours on Monday and a full shift on Tuesday. Because she had sent the floppies by overnight mail, Wendy was jittery all Wednesday. It was Wednesday evening when Temper called with news.
“Wendy, are you sitting down?” Temper asked.
“No. I’m making tea.” Wendy was just tucking her blue daisy tea cozy over her Brown Betty pot. She’d had the tea pot shipped all the way from England. Temper spent a year teasing her about her exotic taste in bland food, mostly because Wendy had discovered a fondness for British tea and biscuits.
“Prepare yourself. This is huge.” Temper said. She had been a drama student in high school. Sometimes it showed. Wendy could just see Temper throwing out her arm with dramatic flair.
