Undressed To The Nines: A Thriller Novel (Drew Stirling Book 1)

by Jayden Hunter

  ~ Congressman Lance Boyd

  Brandon Hull never regretted killing in the line of duty. If he later discovered it wasn’t the best choice, he remained without regret because in the field a man survived by making split-second decisions. They came with the territory.

  He knew he needed to act quickly. He was vulnerable standing in the middle of a creek with a dead body. He pulled the corpse up onto the bank of the creek and placed it in the weeds where it couldn’t be seen from the road, a precaution just in case someone came along while he got the Camaro. He ran to his car and moved it off the bridge.

  He drove Drew’s car backwards to the entrance of the bridge and stopped. He listened and looked. Nobody. He dragged the body up to the car and placed it in the driver’s seat and fastened the seat belt. He got into the passenger’s side, and put the car into reverse. He placed his leg over the body and pressed the gas pedal to back up a few hundred feet. He went around to the driver’s side, turned the steering wheel to the right and aimed it towards the embankment that was next to the bridge.

  He was counting on getting lucky. Luck, he found in his career, came to those willing to risk and to be adaptable. He was already formulating a plan B just in case. He placed the car into drive and shoved Marc’s dead leg onto the gas. In the next instant as the tires squealed, he slammed the door shut and jumped out of the way.

  Like watching a stunt being performed for a film, the car sped to the embankment and flew off into the creek. It landed in a deep section where the water flowed downstream with enough force to carry the car a good distance away from the bridge before it sank.

  All the physical signs left by Marc’s body would be consistent with a panicked person taking a gulp of water into his lungs.

  Hull opened his car’s trunk. He moved his shovel, camping gear, and rope out of the way. He pulled out his travel bag, stripped, and put on some dry clothes. He knew he needed to verify the story Marc had told him. The story seemed reasonable, but it wasn’t good strategy to trust anyone, even if their story made perfect sense and fit all the available evidence.

  A clever liar can make the truth a lie, as well as make a lie the truth. A clever lie could cause doubt, and doubt caused mistakes. Mistakes led to excuses, and excuses were not acceptable.

  Hull drove back to town. He needed to get online and check Marc’s computer. He had a nagging feeling that Marc hadn’t been completely forthright. He needed to verify his story before dealing with Drew. That bitch.

  When Hull walked back into the coffee shop, the woman behind the counter looked up.

  “Forgot something, hon?”

  He told her he did not. He just had some work he needed to get done, and he asked her for the wifi password. He sat down and ordered a cup of black coffee and a piece of pie. He’d developed a craving for something sweet since he had been freezing cold and soaking wet just a few minutes ago. Killing could be hard work sometimes.

  He opened the computer and checked Marc’s email. It wasn’t long before he realized that Marc had lied to him.

  Hull opened an email from an editor at the Washington Post.

  Part of the email caught his eye:

  …so, like I said, we need to try and find some corroboration to this story. I’m still hoping Novak will show up, but it’s looking less likely. I have assigned someone to follow up. His name is Dallas Brown. I’ll have him get in touch with you, and he’ll want to talk to Drew. Can that be arranged?

  Hull continued to check emails. He discovered the notes between Jim and Marc, the photo shoot, and Marc’s emails to reporters tipping them off about the affair between Drew Stirling and Lance Boyd.

  Hull called Boyd.

  “Yeah, I’m here. What’s the status?” Boyd asked.

  “Not good.” He explained everything he knew about the disclosures to the editor at the Post and the plans they were working on to tip off the press about Boyd’s affair with Drew.

  “Goddamn it. What’s next? What’s the next move?”

  “They are also planning on shopping a nude photo spread of Drew, sir. You’d better have a talk with your wife. There is no way to put a lid on this.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yes, fuck. But what’s done is done. The important thing, sir, is the other thing. Men in your position have affairs. It’ll blow over. Our real problem here is that people are still looking at the story about the lab. Are you sure that’s sealed up tight for now?”

  “Yes. As tight as I can make it.”

  “Okay, good. Then I’ll do what I can to clean up any loose ends.”

  “Hull? Listen to me. I don’t want any more violent accidents. You understand? We are in enough shit as it is.”

  Hull didn’t answer him and ended the call. He mentally went through the options he had to salvage this mess. A simple plan was what he needed. Something that would make sense to everyone and that would make the truth sound more like a lie, like a conspiracy. What if he muddied the waters?

  What if?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  We make up horrors to help us cope with the real ones.

  ~ Stephen King

  Sometimes I wonder if novel writers aren’t completely fucked in the head.

  ~ Drew Stirling

  Drew Stirling was nervous and edgy. Marc should have been back. She paced. She knew he promised he’d return before dark, but darkness fell here like a trap.

  She opened the front door and looked outside. The driveway up to the cabin from the county road was dirt and a couple hundred yards long. She couldn’t see all the way to the road, but she knew she could hear a car drive up if she was standing outside. The outside noises were shut out when indoors by the well-insulated cabin. She felt comforted hearing the birds and the occasional bug chirping, so she sat down on the porch and enjoyed the view. It was vast and beautiful. She wondered if people lived out there, alone in the woods. Survivalists, loners, and eccentric crazy people. There must be.

  She shuddered. She could feel someone watching her. Drew got up and walked back inside. She hesitated at the door. If she shut the door, it became too quiet. She wouldn’t be able to hear anyone drive up. However, leaving the door open meant allowing the cold air inside. And who knew what kind of animal could come walking in? If a raccoon or a skunk walked into the cabin, she’d pee her pants. She closed the door. It felt silly, but she locked it.

  The fire gave the room a warmth and comfort she could relax in. She picked up a new paperback, a thriller with an interesting cover, and sat on the sofa to read.

  Prologue

  Night was his favorite time. He moved silently and swiftly in the darkness. He preferred hunting in the state parks along the interstate. It made escaping easier, less risky. He parked his motorcycle on River Street and walked towards the campground using one of the day-hike trails. If he heard anyone coming towards him, he would have time to slip off the trail undetected. He wore leather moccasins. They were quiet and left no imprints. He could hear and feel his own heartbeat when he stopped a hundred feet from the tent. Their tent. The newlyweds.

  The hunter knew the elderly couple in the neighboring camp site would be fast asleep. It was approaching two in the morning, and it was very quiet. Still. He could sacrifice them as well, but he was anxious to get to the woman.

  He moved with discipline and quickness. The tent’s front zipper slid open without a sound. He was hungry. It had taken him a week to find a woman he found attractive who didn’t own a dog. No dog meant no barking. No barking meant sound sleeping. Sound sleeping meant one throat slit before he could count to ten.

  He’d heard her name yesterday. Her new husband had yelled for her. “Angie, it’s almost time for lunch,” he had said.

  The hunter had repeated her name out loud to himself. Over and over again, last night in that funky motel while he thought of her receiving his love. Sharing herself with him. They were meant to be together, at least for one night. Maybe two. Three, if he felt e
specially safe, and if she didn’t hurt herself in a struggle to escape. Some of them tried to run, but others were more receptive to his gifts. He hoped she’d be one of the latter.

  He placed his hand over her mouth and—

  Drew trembled and closed the book. She realized she was being silly, but her mind went to places she was afraid to think about. She bit her lip so hard it bled.

  She walked back to the master bedroom and opened the gun safe. She looked at the guns and then chided herself.

  Drew walked out of the room empty-handed. She thought she heard a creak. She stopped. She listened. Nothing. Total silence. That made it worse. She went back, picked out the shotgun, and loaded it with three shells.

  She took the shotgun out into the living room, made sure the safety was on, and placed it next to the front door. She opened the door and peered out. Quiet. The sky was dark with clouds, and even though she couldn’t place the sun, she knew it was going to fall behind the mountains soon.

  Once the sun went behind the mountains, the evening sky would be gray, and shortly after that, darkness would reveal a few lucky stars in patches of sky between the clouds. It would be mysteriously beautiful, but filled with the unknown.

  And she would be alone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  I am still today a soldier and only a soldier.

  ~ Ernst Rohm

  Trespassers will be shot. Government agents will be tortured first.

  ~ Hand-painted sign on County Road 67

  Brandon Hull found a local real estate agent online before he closed Marc’s computer. He placed a call to the agency and told the agent that he was interested in a vacation cabin. Hull asked him if he was available in the next few minutes.

  “Why, sure. Come on in.”

  Hull drove a block, parked, and got out.

  “I’m a friend of the Chase family. They’ve told me so many good things about coming up here. Are you familiar with their place?”

  The agent didn’t know the name, but Hull pressed him to check public records. “They are old family friends and I’d like to look at places near them.”

  “Okay, yes. I found it. Their place is up Fallen Oaks Road, past the trailer park. The addresses are funny up there because they all get their mail delivered to one spot just off the main highway. I can’t say exactly which lot here,” he pointed at a map, “is their place. Could be any along this road.” He was pointing and dragging his finger across the map. “If you go to the county records department, you can search for owners by lot, but that’s down in Bristol.”

  “You don’t have anything for sale up there along this road?”

  “Nope. These folks hold on to these places, often for generations. Now the trailer park, that’s a different story. Can I interest you in something down closer to the highway?”

  Hull laughed. “No. Let’s say I wanted to drop in on my friends, but—”

  “I wouldn’t suggest dropping in on folks up there. You know, a man lives up there for a reason. You’re liable to have someone stick a gun in your face. You know what I mean?”

  Hull got in his car and headed back towards Fallen Oaks. He would have to play this by ear. On the fly. He’d done it before. It was damage control time. He stopped at the market and bought lighter fluid, charcoal, and hot dogs. He also bought a few protein bars and water.

  He drove a few miles out of town and found a good place to pull over at a highway turn-off that tourists used for taking pictures. The ground had various bits of trash: cigarette butts, empty beer cans, and a condom wrapper. A couple trails led off into the trees. People obviously used them to go off and relieve themselves. He followed one of the trails until he wasn’t visible from the highway and smashed the computer with a small camping ax. He beat the computer into pieces, and then he did the same to the thumb drive.

  He placed Marc’s phone on the ground and raised the ax to smash it, but then he hesitated and considered keeping it. A risk because it was a connection to Marc, but it could also provide intel. Hull pocketed the phone.

  He dug a small hole and kicked all the smashed computer parts and the thumb drive into it. He poured lighter fluid over everything and lit the pile. When he felt everything was sufficiently destroyed, he filled in the hole with dirt and took out a cigarette. He smoked while leaning on his shovel. He thought about how far removed he was from being in the field somewhere dangerous like Afghanistan, Iraq, or Vietnam during wartime. And yet he’d just killed a man, so dark thoughts still criss-crossed his mind. He’d be better tomorrow. He had a job to do.

  Hull drove through Fallen Oaks Trailer Park and noticed a couple of people outside. Nobody paid any attention to him. There was no commotion at the bridge. No police, no ambulance, and nobody standing around staring. As he drove across, he slowed and looked for the Camaro. He could see the black top under the water, but he knew it was there, and he knew what he was looking for. It could easily sit there for weeks before someone noticed. Maybe months. The longer, the better.

  Hull stopped to think. Getting rid of the girl would help the Congressman.

  Other than rumors, there would be no connection between Boyd and a couple that accidentally drowned after driving off the road. Even Peter Stirling would stand up for Boyd, and he’d be quoted in the press as saying, “There is nothing to this disgusting rumor about my daughter. Let our family mourn in peace.” These things were predictable.

  If the Genaplat story got buried long enough, Hull thought, any attacks on the Congressman down the road will look like sour grapes.

  “Of course I knew Drew Stirling,” Boyd would tell the press. He could tell them how deeply saddened by her loss he was. That she was the daughter of a friend, a long time supporter. Boyd could claim, “These nasty political smear tactics are beneath all of us.” After that, Boyd would tell them, “No further comment.” Stonewall them.

  Time would be on their side because rumors were transitory. Without corroboration, the story would die. If the nude pictures of Drew came out after her death, it would appear opportunistic and trashy. It wouldn’t bolster the rumors of an affair. It would make them look more like lies.

  Hull knew what he needed to do.

  He drove until he approached the first turn off. There was a sign at the fork that read “Little Residence” and “No trespassing” so he continued driving uphill. He hoped that the Chase family had been as thoughtful. He passed several more dirt and gravel driveways. Some driveways were marked with signs announcing the name of the family that owned the place. Others were only marked with “No Trespassing” and “No Hunting” signs. He started to create a mental map of the roads he’d have to search if he didn’t come across any sign that announced the Chase family.

  He drove until he reached a locked gate. Beyond the gate, a fire road continued upwards and a sign posted read “County Vehicles Only.” He had passed eighteen driveways or branch roads. Most of them had signs out with hand-painted surnames. Four of the smaller roads had no family name posted. Those would be where he would start his search.

  Hull went back to the bottom of the hill and started with the first driveway on the left. He’d start there and move up going clockwise. Then he’d come back down to the last one on the other side of the road.

  He knew he had the time to be patient. He drove slowly towards the first house. There was smoke coming out of the chimney. Somebody was home. There was an old Ford parked in front, so this was probably not the right place, but he’d check them all. Methodical and patient. He’d find her.

  An elderly man opened the front door. He carried a rifle, but he placed it against the wall and walked towards Hull. He stopped fifteen feet from the driver’s window.

  “Sorry to bother you. I’m a little lost,” Hull said. He sounded confused, frustrated, and not at all dangerous.

  “You can’t read?”

  Hull ignored the question. “You happen to know the Chase family? I’m a friend, but I’m a little lost.
Like I said. If you could point me in the right direction, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Won’t be saying if I do or don’t. Mister, a man like yourself, you ought to know better. If a man wants ya to visit, he’ll give ya good directions.”

  Hull looked at him.

  “You from the government?”

  “No.”

  Hull didn’t want to get into a pissing contest with a hick who was suspicious of the government and was probably still carrying. No doubt the man had a pistol tucked in his jeans. For all Hull knew, he probably had a cousin with 30-30 pointed at him from the woods.

  Hull turned around and drove back to the main road. He looked into his rear view mirror, and he could see the man reach behind his back and pull a gun out from under his shirt.

  These people took privacy seriously, he figured, which meant that the underwater car may sit in the river a long time. Not much traffic came across that bridge. Good. His plan looked even better.

  When he got to the main road, he considered cheating and pulling into the next driveway on the list. It was on the right side, and his plan called for sticking to a clockwise search. He put the thought of changing his search pattern out of his mind. Stick to the plan.

  The next drive to the left took him down a longer driveway. After a few turns through thick trees, he came up to a cabin that looked more like an old Victorian house. He drove up to the front porch and laid on the horn. Nothing. He got out and walked up to the front door and knocked. Nothing. He tried the door, but it was locked. He couldn’t see in the two front windows because of thick curtains, so he walked around back and looked into the kitchen window. The place seemed abandoned. There was furniture and shit scattered everywhere, and it was obvious nobody had been in the place for years.