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

by Jayden Hunter

  “The man who came to the cabin said he was working for you. He said, ‘Boyd told me not to hurt you,’ but then he tried to kill me.”

  “I have many enemies. I believe you, Drew. I believe that a man told you that he was working for me. But he was lying. Trying to trick you. I’d never hire a criminal. I will check into this. I’ll contact a friend I have in the FBI. We’ll have someone investigate. I promise you that. But you have to think this through, Drew. Honestly. Would I really send someone to kill you? To commit murder? It’s preposterous.”

  Drew looked at him. She remained silent while her parents told Boyd that they knew he’d never do such a thing. Both of her parents believed him completely. She thought about her situation. It was possible he was telling the truth. It was entirely possible that someone was out to hurt him. The man that had attacked her could have been trying to hurt the Congressman. Boyd might be her best ally in this situation. He had something to gain from her being silent about the affair or the sex, whatever he wanted to call it. He might be in the best situation to find out who had attacked her.

  Drew listened to her parents talk back and forth. They were coming up with alternate theories of who might have attacked her. Apparently, they’d joined Boyd in believing her story about a man attacking her. They missed the irony that they’d told her just a short time ago that it was a crazy fabricated story.

  “So, Dad. You believe me now? That I was attacked?”

  “I’m sorry, Drew. It just seemed so outrageous. I guess I’m old-fashioned and find this new, constantly evolving world hard to accept. I’m confident that Congressman Boyd will put the full power of law enforcement into this. In the meantime you can stay here. Let the storm blow over for awhile.”

  “Mom? You concur?”

  “Of course, dear.”

  Her mother would never openly contradict her father, so her opinion here was meaningless.

  Drew considered her options. She could go along and accept that nothing could be done right now. She could talk to the reporter being sent by Cindy Wells. Maybe he could uncover secrets and find the truth.

  “What about Marc Chase?” she asked Boyd.

  “Yes, of course. I’ll start an investigation into that today. But I have to remind you, without any evidence of a crime, an adult has the right to disappear. But I’ll get the wheels turning on this. I promise you, Drew, if anything happened to your friend, I’m going to see that a full investigation happens. And we’ll see if there is any link to this man in the woods, Marc, you, the whole mess.”

  Drew wasn’t convinced. She knew that there was nothing she could say or do to change things at this moment with her parents or with Boyd. She hoped that he was telling the truth about not wanting her killed. It would be reckless for a Congressman to have journalists murdered. She realized that herself. It was not like United States Congressmen had a habit of ordering hits on their enemies. There would be people missing daily if that were the case.

  “We aren’t living in some third-world banana republic,” Peter said.

  “Thank God,” Monica added.

  The conversation turned to smaller topics. Drew listened. People had a faith-like trust in politicians that were on their side, she thought. And, ironically, they had a complete distrust of those that had different viewpoints and were in the opposite political party. If Boyd had been a Democrat, her father would be hiring a lawyer, calling the press, and demanding his resignation. He’d be a thorn in the side of the politician that had taken advantage of his child. Instead, her father acted like it was mostly her fault.

  “So, Drew,” the Congressman said. He sounded official again and broke from the conversation he was having with Peter and Monica. “I have your word: no talking to the press about any of this? I can count on your support and cooperation?”

  Drew hesitated and then realized one of the great skills that a sociopathic liar had was being able to detect when others lied. She was caught. She could read it on his face. He knew. And she knew that he knew. She looked down and didn’t speak.

  “Drew!” Her father shouted. “I thought we all agreed to keep this in-house?”

  “I never agreed to keep quiet about the lab, the connection between that and Marc, and how that story may have gotten a reporter killed, a reporter trying to get to the truth.”

  “What lab? What are you talking about?” her father asked.

  She looked at the Congressman. He’d obviously not talked to her father about what was on the thumb drive that had triggered this whole crisis.

  “Genaplat,” said Drew.

  “Isn’t that the company we’ve —,” Monica Stirling started to say before her husband interrupted her.

  “Monica.”

  “Look! You are not understanding.” Boyd raised his voice. “You are not understanding the complexity of the situation.” He caught himself and lowered his voice.

  Drew was amazed at how quickly he could rein in his emotions and revert back to the charming, cool, and reasonable Congressman, the one that was in control.

  “I’m saying that this situation is highly complex. It involves national security matters. I can’t even discuss most of that here without violating several federal laws. It’s a tricky situation. I am, of course, a firm believer in the free press. But some things can get people killed. Lots of people. Some things about this war on terror have to be kept secret. We have too many enemies. Too many.”

  Drew watched her parents calm down and accept what Boyd was telling them. It was all okay again. Of course a man like Boyd could be trusted. He should be trusted. Lives were at stake. American lives. Certainly if anyone was patriotic and believed in the American way it was the Stirling family.

  Peter Stirling broke the silence. “Drew. You may not speak to the press. Period. You are to forget everything you think you know. And answer ‘no comment’ to any inquiry. That’s final.”

  “Or what?”

  Her father’s face turned red. He stood up and looked at Drew.

  She could tell that he was carefully calculating what he was about to say.

  “I’ve been patient with you. I’ve accepted your decision to waste your mental faculties and to use the opportunity to prance around half-naked in magazines. To… To… To be so much less than you are capable of. I’ve learned to live with this. I’ve learned to accept that I’ll never have a son to take over my business, to keep the family name in the forefront of industry, and to represent the Stirlings as your grandfather did. I’ve worked hard to do all of that. I can accept that. I can look forward to the day you’ll settle down and perhaps give me a grandson. I grant you your own life. You get to choose. I can’t tell you what to do. But if you go against me on this, you’re not my daughter. You’ll be dead to me. I mean that.”

  Drew felt a dull, tight ache in her stomach. She looked to her mother but she’d put her head down. She glanced at the Congressman. He’d removed all expression from his face. He sat still as if he had just gone all-in while playing a high stakes poker game. He wasn’t going to give any tells. She stared at her father. He was a proud man and stubborn to his core. She knew that defying him right now would be the worst thing she’d ever done to him.

  “Mom, may I take your car?”

  “Honey, please. Please don’t do this.”

  “Mom?”

  Her mother nodded. She was crying softly.

  “Thanks,” Drew said. She stood. She avoided looking at her father, but she smiled at Boyd. Fuck you, Congressman.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  The most loving parents and relatives commit murder with smiles on their faces. They force us to destroy the person we really are: a subtle kind of murder.

  ~ Jim Morrison

  I’ve never won a Pulitzer. I’ve never had a bestselling book. I’ve changed lives, however, and that’s enough.

  ~ Dallas Brown

  Drew Stirling went upstairs and changed into more comfortable clothes. She went to
the garage and took her mother’s car keys off the hook. She sat inside the car but did not start it. She considered her current position and the action she was about to take. It wasn’t too late to change her mind. She started the car, but didn’t move. Drew knew that she could go back into the house and apologize. She could promise to keep her mouth shut. She could forget about talking to any reporters and move on with her life.

  Even if Boyd was lying about his connection to her attacker, she’d probably be safer if she promised to keep quiet. If she promised her father in front of Boyd, it would be hard to imagine that he’d have her killed. The risk would be too great. Her father was a key to his political survival. She didn’t even know for sure if she should doubt him. He might be telling the truth. Maybe he was also a victim. Wilder things had happened in the world of politics.

  On the other hand, Drew knew that if something was really wrong with the Genaplat lab, if there was some kind of cover-up, she would be safest if she helped break the story. If the reporter, Novak, had been murdered because of this story, then maybe the only way she would be safe in the end was not to remain silent, but seek to expose the truth.

  She pulled out of the garage, pushed the garage door remote control, and watched the door slide downward. She put the car into drive but didn’t move. The door closed, and she made a decision. She headed to the freeway. She was going back up to Glenley to file a police report and to talk to the sheriff. She’d contact Cindy Wells too.

  Once outside the city, Drew put her mother’s Cadillac on cruise control. She turned up the music. She’d been on the road for nearly an hour when her cell rang.

  “Oh, hello. Sorry, I have you on speaker. I never turned on Bluetooth. Who’s calling?”

  “Yes, Drew? Is this Drew Stirling?”

  “Yup.”

  “Hi, Drew. I hope I’ve got you at a good time. You might have been expecting my call. My editor, Cindy, Cindy Wells assigned me to follow up on — ”

  “Yes, oh sure, you must be the guy with the cowboy name. Um, Dallas something?”

  “That’s me. Dallas Brown, investigative journalist. Can you chat for a bit? Is it a good time?”

  “Well, yes and no. I’m near the foothills, and I’m going to lose cell signal soon. I’m headed up to Glenley now. I’m going to see the sheriff. And, well, I’m not sure what else. I’m playing it by ear. I know I need to file a report with the sheriff. My friend is missing. I…”

  Drew didn’t want to start getting emotional on the phone. She knew she’d have time to grieve later. She was excited that a professional reporter was taking her seriously. Maybe, she thought, they could find the truth.

  “Well, this is perfect,” Dallas Brown said. “I’m flying down to Bristol shortly. I’ll grab a rental car, and I’ll head up to Glenley myself. I wanted to get a few photographs anyway. And if you’ve filed a report with the sheriff, I can use that in my investigation. What I’d really like is a chance to sit down and ask you a few questions. Maybe we can meet in a few hours?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll text you when I’m up there. Thank you,” he said and ended the call.

  Drew felt a new sense of empowerment and hope. She wasn’t going to back down. She wasn’t going to give in. She wasn’t going to be bullied.

  When she got into Glenley she found the sheriff’s station. Drew entered the building and saw a lone woman sitting behind the front counter working on a computer. The woman wore a stern unattractive face like she was in pain. Drew waited until the woman looked up before she spoke. “I need to file a report.”

  “What kind?” the woman asked. She was the kind of public employee that made people feel stupid for not knowing what forms and paperwork were needed to accomplish a task that they’d never done before, while she ignored the fact that it had taken her six months when she was initially hired to figure it out herself.

  “I need to file a police report. A man attacked me two nights ago. Out by Fallen Oaks. A friend of mine is missing, and I think it was the same guy responsible.”

  “So you need to file two reports?”

  “I suppose so, then. I’m relying on you to direct me to exactly what I need to do.”

  “Alrighty then. First off, I can’t take any reports. I’m just a civilian contractor. If you need to file a report, you’ll have to make an appointment with one of the deputies or the sheriff. We are understaffed at the moment. One of our deputies is out sick and the sheriff is out on a call. What would you like to do?”

  “I suppose I’d like to make an appointment.”

  The woman picked up a radio. “Sheriff. Sheriff Forrester, you copy? Over.”

  “Go ahead,” a voice spoke over the radio.

  “Have a woman here, like to make a report. Two reports. Assault of some kind and a missing boyfriend. I guess a domestic violence thing. Maybe that’s just one report. You coming in soon? Sheriff? She’d like to make an appointment. Over.”

  “Be back in thirty. Ask her to please hold tight. Out.”

  The woman put the radio down and looked at Drew with a fake smile. “Okay, miss. He’ll be right in. You can have a seat.”

  Drew wanted to correct her. It wasn’t a domestic violence report. The man responsible for attacking her wasn’t the same man as her missing friend. Hadn’t she made that clear? It didn’t matter. She wasn’t the one taking the report anyway, but incompetence in others caused Drew grief. It drove her batty. It was a trait inherited from her father, so maybe it wasn’t a good quality. She remained silent and waited.

  The sheriff came in about twenty-five minutes later. He was a tall man, and Drew assumed he was in his sixties. She shook hands with him. Her first impression was that he seemed professional and trustworthy. She could tell he was a working man and not a political one. His skin felt like dry burlap, and she noticed spots of dark grease on his forearms. His uniform shirt, pressed and clean, had a name tag that read “Forrester.”

  He noticed that Drew had seen the grease. “Was out on the highway, minor collision. Happens all the time up here. People think it’s a speedway. Can I get you a coffee, miss?” He looked in her eyes and again said, “Miss?”

  “I’m Drew Stirling. No coffee, thank you.”

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Sheriff Forrester. Please, follow me.”

  She followed him back to his office. He closed the door and directed her to sit. He removed his hat and pulled forms from his desk, got a pen, and started writing. He asked for her basic information and then put down the pen.

  “Okay, let’s make sure I’m getting the correct report started here. Now, this was a domestic incident? Is that correct?”

  “No. She, the woman out front, she didn’t hear me correctly.” Drew told the sheriff the story from the beginning. He listened without interrupting and wrote himself notes as she spoke.

  “That’s quite a tale, miss. Quite a tale. Alright. First things first. Let’s see if we can’t eliminate the possibility that Mr. Chase hasn’t gone off on his own free will. We need to eliminate it from the possible list of things that might have happened, you understand? Let’s start with the most likely.”

  Drew watched as he turned on his computer and typed. He only used his two index fingers. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “Says here that Marc Chase lives in Bristol. I’ve got a website here. Let me see.” He read a phone number out loud and punched the numbers into his desk phone while he spoke. He put the phone call on speaker, and Drew heard it go straight to voicemail. As she heard Marc’s recorded voice, she felt a lump in her throat. The sheriff asked if that number was both his office and his personal cell number. Drew confirmed that it was.

  “Let me see. Alrighty, got another number here,” the sheriff said. Drew listened to the phone ring.

  And elderly man answered. “Yes?”

  “Frank? It’s Sheriff Forrester up in Glenley. How’s it going?”

  “Doing better than a dead dog. How’s it going f
or you? How’s Shelly?”

  “Oh, you know. It’s better than yesterday, not as good as tomorrow. Hey look, I’ve got a friend of your son up here sitting in my office. Says she and Marc were up at your place a couple of nights back. He borrowed her car to come into town. She hasn’t seen him since then, and she’s worried. The boy’s not answering his cell phone. We were hoping maybe you’ve heard from him?”

  “Nope, can’t say I have. It’s been, I’d say, three or four weeks now. I’m sure he’s okay. This thing maybe a lover’s quarrel or something? Probably went back down to Bristol. Although if he left a woman alone up at my place I can’t say I’d blame her for being mighty upset.”

  “She’s saying there was no quarrel, Frank. She’s worried about him because she says she was attacked later that night and thinks maybe… Well, let’s not start to speculate. I’m wondering, could you call around? Maybe friends or a relative might have heard from him? Can you check? Call me back? Let me know if you hear anything?”

  “Of course. You heading up to my place?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll let you know what it looks like when I get back to town. It sounds like there were some shots fired and a few windows broken. You’ll probably need to head up. It’s been quiet up there otherwise. I was out at the Eastman’s, oh say, a week ago. Nothing unusual then. No other reports, but I’ll be in touch.”

  Drew had become more upset. She didn’t want to start crying, but she felt like it. The sheriff looked at her and was silent for a minute. Then he asked a few more questions.

  “The man that attacked you, can you describe him?”

  “Not really. He was wearing a ski mask and dark clothes. He was an older man. At least fifty. Maybe sixty. I could tell by his voice he wasn’t young. Oh, he said he’d served in Vietnam. He sounded military. He sounded like a tough military man, a white guy, but I couldn’t place an accent on him. It was so dark up there, and I was scared out of my mind.”