by Gary Ruffin
ALSO BY GARY RUFFIN
Hot Shot
Copyright
This edition first published in hardcover in the United States in 2013 by
The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc.
NEW YORK
141 Wooster Street
New York, NY 10012
www.overlookpress.com
For bulk and special sales, please contact [email protected]
Copyright © 2013 by Gary Ruffin
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.
ISBN: 978-1-4683-0756-6
Contents
Also By Gary Ruffin
Copyright
Prologue
Part One Lights …
Spring 2005
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
Part Two Camera …
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
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Part Three Action …
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Part Four Hollywood Ending
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
CHERRY PAGE WOKE UP TO THE FEEL OF HER PERSIAN CAT’S ROUGH tongue. Marlon was vigorously licking her nose as he always did when she slept late. Cherry took his furry gray head in both hands, and kissed him on his nose in return. The vivid sunlight streaming in the bedroom window of her London townhouse was a welcome sight. The old city had been rain soaked for the entire past week, so the sun making an appearance on a Saturday morning was cause for celebration.
She scratched the fat cat’s stomach, placed him gently on the down comforter, and yawned hugely before sitting up in her bed and stretching herself awake. Today was going to be a busy one, and after a four-month hiatus from work, she was eager to get out of bed and into the day. Tomorrow she was off to America to begin work on a new film, so she had to get all her affairs in order before leaving.
She walked to the loo, did what was necessary, washed her hands, and splashed cold water on her famous face. Taking down her old plaid flannel robe from behind the door, she wrapped it around the oversized men’s pajamas she always wore to bed, and headed for the kitchen. Within a minute, the coffee machine was dripping the first cup. Normally, she would have had tea, but on days that required her to be alert from the moment she awoke, coffee provided the extra jolt she needed.
The aroma of the fresh coffee brought Marlon running, and Cherry poured him half a bowl of his dry food, then filled another bowl with water from the tap.
She called her neighbor, Mrs. Dimmock, and made arrangements to leave the house key in the large flowerpot near the front door. That way, Mrs. D could pick up the cat at her convenience. Typically, Cherry wasn’t sure how long she’d be gone, but Mrs. Dimmock said not to worry, Marlon would be well taken care of in her absence.
They said their good-byes, and Cherry poured herself a cup of the strong steaming coffee, taking it black. Cup in hand, she moved to the living room to check her e-mail.
She turned on her laptop computer, waited for it to boot up, and saw the instant message box: You will be sacrificed … In order to bring the Blessings of Baal, the sacrifice must be without spot or blemish … and you are the Only One who is truly worthy. I will be The One to set your Spirit free … You will be the Perfect Sacrifice. See you in Atlanta …
At first, she thought it was her friend Vivian, who fancied herself a witch and was always teasing Cherry about being the “perfect woman.” But Viv wasn’t a practical joker. She was dead serious about her beliefs, foolish though they might be. Besides, Vivian used the name wicca_woman_2012 when she messaged Cherry. The name at the top of this box was not_so_shy_guy.
Being a celebrity has its dark side, as Cherry knew all too well. There had been weird mail and boxes left on her doorstep several times before, and only last year, the studio had tracked down a sick young woman who had made death threats against Cherry by post.
But this was a new method of violating her space; to come right into her home this way was much more frightening. This person had to know her username in order to contact her. How in the world would someone know that?
After checking to make sure all the doors and windows were locked, she dialed the operator, and asked to be connected to Scotland Yard.
Part One Lights …
SPRING 2005
1
MY FIRST CATCH OF THE DAY TURNED OUT TO BE A BICYCLE TIRE.
It was a Sunday morning, and I was making the most of it by surf fishing for the first time in months. Bum, my humongous German shepherd pup, was splashing in the chilly water of the Gulf, barking at the ridiculous spectacle of me reeling in the rubbery fruit of my three hours of labor.
I finally got the sodden old tire onto the beach, and Bum attacked: Biting it, growling, and shaking his head as he chomped down on it with all his puppy might. He actually has a lot of might, as he is the biggest ten-month old shepherd pup in the world, and I’m not kidding. He’s from a long line of champion show dogs, and is exceptionally large for his age. Also, he can chew up stuff like you wouldn’t believe.
I had to struggle to get the tire away from him so he wouldn’t be hooked. Catching a bicycle tire is bad enough, but catching a puppy is just wrong.
I had been casting into the surf since six that morning, about two hundred yards east of the Gulf Front pier. The sun was hiding s
omewhere behind the pale gray clouds, nothing more than a big, dim lightbulb casting a dreary glow over everything. A soft drizzle was falling, and it was a little cooler than usual for an early-spring day in the Florida Panhandle, but we were having big fun just being out on the beach in the fresh salt air.
Bum was soaked and dusted with sand, and was having a grand time barking at the crabs that came into view before quickly disappearing. Earlier, he had chased a pelican that flew low overhead, and I wondered what he would do with one of the prehistoric-looking birds if he ever caught one. I knew what he would do if he caught a crab, because that happened last month during a walk on the beach. He quickly learned his lesson when a big one pinched the crap out of his snout. Barking at them was as far as he would go now, and several feet away was as close as he would get.
I unhooked the tire and tossed it on the sand, and he grabbed it in his teeth and ran down the beach about thirty yards, shaking his big head and growling the whole way. He settled down and began happily chewing on his trophy catch.
My next few casts brought nothing, but then something fairly large hit my line. I knew it was a fish this time, because it started to run parallel to the beach, and jumped out of the water. It looked like a pretty good-sized redfish, and it put up a first-rate fight for several minutes, going out as far as a couple hundred feet or so before I was able to start reeling him in towards the sand.
Just as I got the fish within about thirty feet of the shore, the line snapped, and my quarry got away. I reeled in the now naked line, and cursed the runaway redfish up one side and down the other.
Coming to the conclusion that the bicycle tire would be my limit for the day, I whistled for my buddy, and he came dashing towards me with the tire still in his mouth. He stopped just close enough to spray me with seawater as he shook himself dry. I thanked him for the shower, and wrestled the tire away from him.
I picked up my tackle box, grabbed the old canvas bag that holds towels, sunblock, keys, and my cell phone, and we walked in the damp sand up to the trash can that’s next to the steps that lead to the public parking lot. I tossed in the tire, and we headed up the steps towards my patrol car, the broken line of the fishing rod catching the breeze.
Bum’s claws clicked on the sun-bleached wood planks as he trotted up ahead on the walkway that leads to the parking lot, and seagulls called to each other overhead. Those were the only sounds until my cell phone rang in the bag.
Neal Feagin threw the saddle over Blue, his favorite of the four horses he kept stabled on the Feagin Farm near Cumming, Georgia. Neal, his wife Susan, and their three daughters had moved into the big new house just last month, and they’d never been happier as a family.
The Feagins had moved to Alpharetta when Neal retired from his job as a homicide detective in New Orleans after a particularly wild case just last year. Money was not a concern, as Susan had become a multimillionaire overnight several years back when her parents had died in a plane crash. She’d grown up an only child in a tony section of Atlanta near the governor’s mansion, but now wanted to live far away from the urban areas of town. So, they had purchased the two-hundred-acre spread, and bought a horse for each family member but Susan, who had no interest whatsoever in horses. As she liked to point out, she had enough work to do with Neal and the three girls.
Neal had started his own private investigation business after passing the test for his license with the greatest of ease. He set up shop in Phipps Plaza, an upscale shopping mall in Buckhead, a suburb known as the Beverly Hills of Atlanta. He got the unusual idea of setting up a P.I. office in a shopping mall from Coop, his closest friend and former roommate at the police academy. Coop had said that there would be plenty of walk-in business from all the rich women who shopped at an upscale mall like Phipps, and it turned out that he was right.
Neal was in the middle of five cases involving surveillance of suspected adulterous husbands, and had hired three young investigators to help him deal with the overflow. Feagin Investigations was off to an excellent start.
Even better, the previous Friday afternoon, another client had fallen into his lap when a young Englishwoman happened to see his office in the mall. After he corrected her mispronunciation of his name (“Feagin” rhymes with “President Reagan”), she steered Neal to a job as a personal bodyguard for a celebrity who was coming to Atlanta to stay for a few weeks on business.
The commute into Buckhead from Alpharetta was a major problem, since the traffic in Atlanta is as bad as anywhere in America, so Neal only opened the office Wednesday through Saturday. The ride south on Highway 400 could be bumper-to-bumper for ten miles or more if you hit it at the wrong time, so he bought a new Lexus GS to drive to town, leaving his beloved Ford pickup behind at the farm. Besides, he couldn’t follow someone inconspicuously in the huge red truck. Saturday traffic wasn’t quite as bad as the workweek, so Neal’s schedule was much less brutal than most commuters, who had to drive on Highway 400 five days a week. When you have a wealthy wife, you can live your life a little differently.
Early-Sunday-morning horseback rides around the property were Neal’s major form of relaxation now, and he had settled into a routine. That was something he had never been able to even consider as a homicide detective in New Orleans. Now, he looked forward to the equine excursions, rain or shine, and often daydreamed of riding his horse down Highway 400 to the office someday. He usually dreamed of doing it as he was sitting in a gridlock.
Blue, a big black gelding, was still young enough to want to run a little each time they went out, and old enough to enjoy a leisurely stroll along one of the paths. Sort of like himself, Neal thought.
There was the threat of showers in the darkening clouds, so Neal put on his rain gear, including his waterproof Stetson. Spring hadn’t quite sprung in Georgia, but it was just around the corner. It was a toss-up as to whether Neal liked spring or autumn in Atlanta more, because both of them brought gorgeous conditions.
The Feagin girls couldn’t wait for their first spring on the farm after hearing their mother talk about how the dogwoods would look in full bloom. They wanted to plant flower and vegetable gardens near the big house, and were all considering becoming vegetarians. They also rode whenever they got the chance, and took care of the horses without complaint, honoring the deal they’d made with their parents when Neal and Susan agreed to buy the animals. The girls enjoyed riding almost as much as their old man. Almost.
Inside the barn, Neal cinched the saddle tight, fixed the bit in Blue’s mouth, and led him outside. Then he stepped in a stirrup and took his seat on Blue’s wide back. He gave the horse a pat on the neck and waved to Susan, who stood watching from the kitchen window, coffee cup in hand. Susan and the girls would head to church soon, but Neal and Blue were headed for the large pasture. Once they passed through the open gate, the big horse broke into a trot.
After half a minute trotting, Blue nickered when he saw the white rails that the girls had put together out in the pasture for jumping their horses. The top rail was only two feet off the ground, so there was no real danger involved.
Neal had never tried to get Blue to jump it, but he guided him in that direction, figuring that maybe the horse wanted to try. To Neal, the horse’s nicker seemed to be a request for a chance at jumping the rail, so why not give him a shot?
Neal kicked Blue’s sides, and said, “Giddy up, big fella, let’s see how high you can fly.”
The horse broke into a medium gallop, and headed straight for the rails. Neal leaned forward like he’d seen the equestrians do in the Olympics, and braced himself for the leap.
When Blue was within thirty yards of the rails, he sped up a little more, and flattened his ears like a thoroughbred on Race Day. Neal’s hat flew off, and a thunderclap boomed just as Blue came within five yards of the jump. Startled, the big gelding dug his front hooves into the ground, and Neal went flying over the rail while Blue stayed behind.
When he hit the ground after what seemed to be a full min
ute, Neal’s boot caught the ground in a way that caused his ankle to snap with an audible pop. He knew immediately that it was broken from the sound—that, and the fact that his foot was at an ugly angle in relation to his leg.
Blue stood on the safe side of the jump, looked at his master for a moment, and then turned away. He ambled twenty or so feet, and began to graze as best he could with the bit in his mouth. The bit didn’t seem to hinder him too much; in fact, he was doing quite well, his big horse lips nibbling and pulling the short dry grass into his mouth.
Neal couldn’t stand the sight of his twisted ankle, so he lay on his back and reached in his coat pocket for his cell phone. He’d argued with Susan for an entire day when she had demanded that he keep it with him while riding, his point being that he was trying his best to forget about phones when he rode. She wore him down as usual, and secured his promise that he would always carry it on his rides. Lying in the grass, he was glad yet again that he’d had the sense to marry her.
He reluctantly called Susan and told her what had happened, and was relieved that she didn’t chew him out, but instead quickly called 911. He also knew his plans had changed, so he dialed Coop’s number and waited for him to answer.
Bum stopped when he heard my phone ringing, and sat on his haunches as I put down the rod and tackle box, and retrieved the phone from my bag.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hey bud. You busy right now?”
I recognized Neal’s voice, and asked, “Who the hell is this?”
“Oh, you’re a riot, Alice,” he said, and made a groaning sound.
“Hey, you okay? You don’t sound so good.”
“I don’t feel so good, either. I’m lying on my back in a pasture with a broken ankle, looking up at a sky that’s about to open up and drench me and my traitor of a horse,” Neal replied.
“You’re what?”
He laughed and groaned at the same time, and said, “You heard me. I took Blue out for our Sunday ride, and tried to get him to jump the—never mind, it’s a long story. I need to know if you can take some time off and come help me with a job.”
“Does Susan know you’re lyin’ out there with a broken ankle?”
