by Diane Capri
Joy shot through me. All the work Joshua and I had put in the case was now seeing fruition. “Will he go down for what happened to Tracy in the barn?” I asked.
“He sure will,” Ross said. “Certainly as an accessory to murder, if not for the murder itself.”
I grinned. I would love to be on that case. I’d like to watch his smug face as he realized there was no getting out of it this time. The justice system had failed once, and I didn’t have high hopes that it would win out again. But I wasn’t ready to give up on Lady Justice yet.
Leaning back into the soft cushions, I felt my heart slow for the first time in days. It was as if a great weight had lifted from my mind.
Two killers had been on the loose. And now they wouldn’t be hurting anyone ever again.
The wild urge in me was gone. It had been placated.
For now.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
MANDY FUSSED OVER ME and told me to take a week off, but I bargained for a day instead. I slept the longest I ever had, a full eight hours, and woke up feeling like a new woman.
At the breakfast table, Mandy served me warm cinnamon rolls with green tea just the way I liked it.
“How long are you going to spoil me like this?” I asked, taking a big mouthful.
“Don’t get used to it,” she said. “But we are going on a trip to Rio next month. You know we’ve always wanted to go there together, and we’d better do it soon before you’re attached to another case.”
I gave a small smile. Another case. I was looking forward to my next one. Where would it take me this time?
I snapped back to the present. “Okay, we’ll go,” I said. “Let’s book the tickets right away before Dan calls me in.”
She grinned and spooned some sugar into her coffee. And then her eyebrow creased.
“What is it?” I asked, my stomach dropping.
“There’s just something I don’t understand, something that doesn’t add up,” she said. “If you came here from the bed-and-breakfast, why didn’t you bring your bag?”
I hesitated a beat to think up a lie. “I left my bag because I wanted to sleep there tomorrow night.” But the hesitation was all she needed to know that something was up.
Silence stretched between us. I took a sip of tea, and it tasted more bitter than normal.
“I know you’re withholding something from me,” she said. I was about to speak when she held up a hand. “And that’s okay. Just know that I’m here.”
I moved my roll from one side of the plate to the other. My heart felt full. Those words meant more to me than she’d ever know.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
THE DNA FROM THE basement where we’d found Angela was not a match for Glen Williams, and his case began to fall apart just as fast as the one against Hank Williams had. I cursed the judge and Dan almost fired me for embarrassing him. Our DNA evidence was thrown out because of how long it sat in the barn, but it really didn’t matter because nothing matched Glen anyway.
I spent the better part of a week obsessed and pored over all the notes and video of the Hank Williams trial, trying to find the connection. The DA’s office was a hellhole. Dan was angry, but I guessed it was because I wouldn’t respond to his advances and our case was falling apart and making him look bad.
“I just don’t get it.” I hit the fast-forward button on the remote and groaned.
Joshua nodded and looked at me from behind a stack of boxes. We were putting in long days again in what seemed to be a repeat of the Hank Williams trial.
“It has to be something stupid.” Joshua smiled and went back to work.
I was watching myself on video giving the opening on the Hank Williams case. The camera panned to Hank and it hit me. “No way.”
Joshua looked up at me and blinked. “What?”
I skipped forward to another scene and watched Hank. Then without saying a word, I ejected the DVD and put in one from Glen’s trial earlier that week. My mind raced. And then the camera showed Glen sitting at the defense table, and I gasped.
“I gotta go.”
“Sarah, where—what did you see?” Joshua stuttered. I didn’t wait—I couldn’t because I had just figured out why nothing fit.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
AN HOUR LATER, I was sitting in the visiting area waiting to see Glen Williams. He was being held at the state penitentiary, but in a posh cell. After cussing out the judge, I was not the acting lead on his case, so I got in without his lawyers present.
Glen shuffled in and sat down across from me, with just a piece of security glass between us. I picked up the phone and he smiled at me. I hated that smile. But this time I had him—he just didn’t know it yet.
“Miss Steele, how nice of you to come visit me. How is the case going?” He was jeering at me.
“Not good, really. You seem to be one step ahead of everyone.”
“It’s easy when I’m innocent. The guilty are the only ones who need to hide.”
I held back a gag. “I know who you are. I know why the DNA isn’t a match, and I wanted to come down here and see the look in your eyes when this weak woman puts you away for life.”
Glen’s eyes darkened and he put on a fake smile. “You are a spunky one. I like the spunky ones. Maybe when I’m out, we can play again.”
This time I didn’t hesitate.
“Oh, don’t worry. The game is over, and you lost.” I paused. “Hank.”
Hank’s eyes darted back and forth, but he regained his composure and snarled. “How?”
It was my turn to smile. “Now, now, Hank, that would be too easy. I like it better this way. It is a game, after all. You figure it out.”
With that, I hung up the phone and called for the guard. Hank glared at me and slammed the phone down with his left hand.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
BY THE END OF the week, everything changed. Hank was tested and his DNA matched the DNA in the basement where Angela was held. What I saw in the video was Hank Williams writing on a piece of paper with his left hand. But when I killed him, or thought I did, he used his right hand to hold the knife.
The video of the Glen Williams arraignment showed a man writing with his left hand, proving that it was Hank, and Glen was the man I shot at Mandy’s house. Hank let his brother take the fall for him as he tried to get away. But he knew that even if he got caught, he could get off again because the DNA would not match, and his brother was dead.
Dan spun the Williams case well and the media ate it up. Dan told them, “Someone tried to force the ADA to throw a case, but no matter what, the DA’s office would not be bullied. Truth and justice will always prevail.”
I felt like the hero, but it was short-lived. Hank Williams was killed three weeks later by another inmate, shanked in the back with a toothbrush. I didn’t know if Hannah sent the hit out on him, but I wouldn’t put it past her. There was a lot of money riding on his silence. I wondered what her part was in all this, but I was not going to find out. It was not perfect justice, but it was better than nothing.
After a few more lessons at the target range, Solomon finally asked me out on a date. Besides his looks and charm, there was a mystery about him that drew me in. He held me at arm’s length, which was perfectly fine with me. But one day, I wanted to see what lay behind the mask.
I felt on top of the world, as if the sun was a little brighter and the smells of summer were all there in full bloom, just for me. I had some of my life back, something to hold on to, and a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
I wanted to believe in justice, in the system, but my faith faltered. It was used and abused every day. Greed. Jealousy. Revenge. Hatred. All battled within the court system until I didn’t know which side was right. Was it all just a big game?
I did know one thing. I would not be a pawn anymore. I was going to stand up and fight, no matter what that meant.
THE END
#
Don’t miss the next book in the Sarah Steele Thrill
er series:
TWISTING STEELE
About the Authors
AARON PATTERSON
Aaron is the father of three kids: Soleil, Kale, and Klayton. He is the author of the bestselling Mark Appleton thriller series, The Airel Saga, and The Sarah Steele thriller series. Aaron worked in the construction field for 11 years and is now a full-time writer. Aaron was home-schooled and has a bachelor’s degree in theology. He loves to hike, snowboard, camp, and drink coconut lattes. He is also the founder of StoneHouse Ink and co-founder of StoneHouse University. He speaks all over the country on the subject of eBooks, writing and the changing publishing world.
Connect with Aaron at his blog:
http://theworstbookever.blogspot.com
Friend him on Facebook:
www.facebook.com/aaronpatterson
And Twitter:
@mstersmith
Aaron also has a newsletter and you can get updates on his new books and way cool deals. You can sign up here:
http://eepurl.com/tQWHb
Also by Aaron Patterson
Sweet Dreams (Book 1)
Dream On (Book 2)
In your Dreams (Book 3)
Airel (Book 1)
Michael (Book 2)
Uriel (Book 3 Coming Soon)
19 (Digital Short)
The Craigslist Killer (Digital Short)
Elena’s Secret: A Vampire Dairies’ Story
Breaking Steele
Twisting Steele
Melting Steele (Coming Soon)
#
ELLIE ANN:
I was born in the jungles of Thailand, was raised in a small farming village in Iowa, lived in the middle of a Texan desert, and now abide in the Ozarks. I get nerd points for being home-schooled. I get nerd points revoked for being a basketball jock in high school. I get nerd points again for dressing as Aragorn for LOTR midnight showings. I’m trying to become a world-renowned geek.
I like writing fairy tales, tall tales, thrillers, cyberpunk, and am seriously interested in transmedia storytelling. I like reading and watching well-written adventures. My favorite book? The Wonder Clock by Howard Pyle. My favorite movie? TheReturnoftheKingPan’sLabyrinthIronManSilveradoSneakersStardust (see that? I cheated there).
I’m married to the best man there is. I’m mama to three adorable children.
I’m an editor for StoneHouse Ink. And I’m a producer/writer/director of interactive books at Noble Beast.
Check out my first solo novel, The Silver Sickle, a YA cyberpunk published by StoneHouse Ink.
email:
[email protected]
twitter:
@elliesoderstrom
Facebook:
Ellie Ann
MOONLIGHT SONATA
A DICK MOONLIGHT THRILLER
VINCENT ANDRI
Vincent Zandri © copyright 2013
StoneGate Ink
an imprint of StoneHouse Ink
Boise ID 83713
http://www.stonegateink.com
www.vincentzandri.com
For Lola, wherever you are…
“I used to look forward to the day when I got too old to give a damn about women.”
—James Crumley, The Last Good Kiss
PROLOGUE
YOU’RE DROWNING.
The entirety of your fragile head thrust deep down into the watery business end of a white porcelain toilet inside the men’s room of a Ralph’s Tavern in Albany. The water is cold and tastes vaguely of rust and urine as it enters into your mouth. You’re on your knees, hands pressed flat against a piss-stained floor, the cold hard steel of a pistol barrel pressed against your spine, a bear claw of a hand shoving your head down deeper into the toilet with each thrust.
“Who sent thee?” the poet barks.
Pulling you back out by the collar on your black leather coat, you spit out the rancid water and make a desperate attempt to inhale a dose of men’s room-fresh air. You want to be cooperative, being that this man is your client, whether he knows it or not. You want to at least try to answer his query. But instead you’re choking, gagging, and vomiting rancid toilet water.
“Who sent thee, scoundrel?”
The pistol barrel is jammed so tight against your spine you feel like it’s about to burst through skin and bone and enter into your stomach. You hear a fist banging on the men’s room door. Somebody shouting to open up. Somebody who’s got to drop “a big fucking deuce.” But the poet doesn’t care. He’s locked the door. Dead-bolted it secure. He’s already shot one man already, or so legend has it. What difference does it make if he shoots you too? The poet is desperate. He’s on the run. He’s drunk and wired up on cocaine. Enough Bolivian marching powder to fire up a power line.
You hear the barrel being cocked. You feel the mechanical action of the pistol against your spine. In a second or two, you’ll hear the blast and you’ll see your bullet-shredded pink stomach lining spatter up against the toilet and the graffiti-covered plaster wall—the work-in-progress canvass for the drunk and the damned.
“One more time. Who sent thee?”
You open your mouth once more, try to spit out the words. It’s like tearing the skin away from the back of your throat. But in the end, you manage to form a single word.
“Agent,” you whisper. Then, “Your. Fucking. Agent.”
“Liar,” the poet shouts, thrusting your head back into the toilet, but immediately pulling it back out, your face and head dripping wet like an overused toilet brush. “You are nothing but a scoundrel and a liar and I will have my revenge upon thee.”
The pistol barrel shifts from your spine upwards to the back of your skull. In your brain, you picture the poet. His thick, white, Ernest Hemingway Old Man and the Sea beard, his full head of salt and pepper hair cut close to the scalp. You see his short, bull-dog build, and his many-times-broken pug nose. You see his ratty khaki safari jacket, its pockets jammed with notebooks, scraps of paper with story-lines and poems written on them, pens, pencils, unsmoked joints, cash, candy bars, and who knows what the hell else. The poet is years older than you, but bears the strength, power, and build of a rhino. A drunk, coked-up Rhino.
“No wait!” you spit. “Wait. Please. Fucking wait, Mr. Walls. I can explain.”
More pounding on the door. More words. Someone about to crap his pants if you don’t open up.
“My agent might be a heartless, soulless cunt who would sell out her own aging mother to make a ten-spot,” Walls speaks in his deep, throaty, formal poetry reading voice. “After all, that’s why I’ve signed on with her. But she would never stoop so low by sending a private detective in search of me. You sir, are a liar and scoundrel.”
“You don’t know me.”
A slap upside your head with Walls’s bear claw hand. It makes your head ring.
“Cease thy banter, rogue.”
The pistol is pressed harder against your skull. Now you see brain matter, blood, and bits of bone spattered against the wall. With any luck it will cover up the hand-scribbled erect cock and the phone number written below it beside with the words, “I give great head. Call me.”
More pounding on the door. More shouts.
“She cares about you, Mr. Walls,” you spit. “She needs you back at your writing desk. You’re all she’s got. She needs you. You need you. You need to be writing. It’s my job to bring you back home.”
Silence fills the bathroom, like the pause after a carefully recited stanza at a college sponsored literary reading.
“Liar,” the bearded poet whispers, “turn to me.”
You don’t turn to him so much as he forces you up by your coat collar. Forces you up enough for you to shift from your knees to your ass.
“Open up,” Walls spits. “Take thee into your mouth.”
You open your mouth, your eyes shifting from the black barrel to the poet’s round, red, bearded face. You feel the barrel slide inside, its cold metal pressed against your tongue and against the roof of your mouth.
&nb
sp; “Swallow until you see the colors of the noon,” recites the poet from one of his most famous works. “Swallow until you lose your mind and your soul. Swallow for love. Swallow for me. Swallow your death.”
You close your eyes, and wait for the barrel to come down and for the world to turn black. You’ve died before, so why should this time be any different? We all owe God a life. That’s what Shakespeare said. And you, Richard Moonlight, part-time private eye, part-time dad of one, part-time lover, part-time scribbler of words, full-time head case… You are long overdue.
But the hammer doesn’t come down. That’s when something else happens instead.
The pistol barrel slides back out of your mouth as the poet rises up, filling the stall with his four-by-four body. He doesn’t shoot you, but he doesn’t leave you in peace either.
“This is where me and thee take our leave,” recites the poet. “One from the other.”
When he raises up the pistol barrel, you know what’s coming. You close your eyes and wait for the collision of steel against bone.
“Be advised, Mr. Moonlight, that Roger Walls will never see the inside of a prison cell again. Do we have an understanding?”
“Duly noted,” you utter through clenched teeth. “But you haven’t done anything wrong.”
The high-pitched sound of your own scared-like-a-girl voice is the last thing you remember before the men’s room turns black.
Seventeen Hours Earlier
CHAPTER ONE
IN THE DREAM, I’M RUNNING.
Running along the side of the road. Running slow. Jogging. A nice, slow, steady gate, the blood pumping through my veins, heartbeat elevated, breathing nice even breaths in and out, a small sheen of sweat building up on my skin, coating it like a transparent glaze.
I’m feeling good. Feeling at one with my body and the fresh air. Feeling healthy. Like the little piece of bullet lodged inside my brain doesn’t exist at all. Like I have nothing to look forward to but a long back-nine of a life without the threat of dying at any moment should that little fragment of bullet decide to make like an active fault line and shift.
