by Debbie Burke
Instrument of the Devil
Tawny Lindholm Thriller Book 1
Debbie Burke
Media Management LLC
Copyright © 2017 Debbie Burke
Media Management LLC
P.O. Box 8502
Kalispell, MT 59904
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Original edition published 2017 by Kindle Press
Cover design by: Brian Hoffman
Printed in the United States of America
Table Of Contents
Chapter 1- Happy Birthday
Chapter 2 - Windfall
Chapter 3 – The Joys of Technology
Chapter 4 – Being Neighborly
Chapter 5 – Pray 4 Me
Chapter 6 – NSF
Chapter 7 – Identity Theft
Chapter 8 – Hiding Out
Chapter 9 – Ojo
Chapter 10 – Ransom
Chapter 11 – Kid, I’m Gonna Make You a Star
Chapter 12 – Dumbfounded
Chapter 13 –Death of Illusion
Chapter 14 – Caught
Chapter 15 – Don’t Waste Your Death
Chapter 16 – Final Sunrise
Chapter 17 – Interrogation
Acknowledgements
About the Author and a Message from Debbie Burke
Sneak Preview of Stalking Midas
Chapter 1- Happy Birthday
Kahlil Shahrivar strode down the dim quiet street, parka hood over his head, swinging the leash that would support his cover story of a runaway dog. Even at one in the morning, he didn’t expect to be challenged. Residents of the small Montana town lacked the knife-edge of suspicion prevalent in most places he worked. He stopped in front of an old single-story Craftsman bungalow. A porch lamp glimmered but its illumination didn’t reach the mailbox at the curb.
He checked the block. No approaching headlights, houses dark, safe, and sleeping. From his pocket, he took a postcard and a book-size package and inserted them in the mailbox.
On the side of the house, light from a small bathroom window spilled into the yard.
She was awake. He smiled.
For two patient years he’d waited to see Tawny Lindholm in person. Finally, here was the chance. Dense lilac bushes gave cover as he crept close and crouched in shadows a mere ten feet from the house.
Framed by the bathroom window, she brushed long coppery hair lightly streaked with gray. An oversized, threadbare tee-shirt hung loose on her slender frame. Probably had belonged to her dead husband. High cheekbones and delicate features bespoke the modeling career of her youth. And the lovely wide-set brown eyes he remembered from online photos.
Her shoulders tensed and she turned to look out into the darkness.
His heart quickened, even though he knew she couldn’t see him. She lowered the shade and the light went out.
He left cover and returned to the sidewalk, thrusting his hands into his pockets against the chill, smiling as he turned the corner.
The final stage of his attack on America’s electrical grid had begun.
* * *
Tawny Lindholm made her way to the mailbox in April morning fog. As she hurried back to her warm house, she thumbed through the envelopes. AARP sent birthday greetings and yet another invitation to join, which she tossed in the kitchen trash, along with a postcard advertising a smartphone class. A couple of bills and a bubble-wrapped package from an online retailer. Strange—she hadn’t ordered anything.
At the chipped Formica breakfast bar, she tore open the package. Inside was a new smartphone. The message on the label read: Happy 50th Birthday, Mom. Love, Neal.
Crap. Her son meant well but he knew how much technology intimidated her. With him in the Army seven thousand miles away in Afghanistan, he couldn’t even show her how to work it.
When she picked up the device, a bell started to ding. She tried pressing buttons on the side. The sound changed to a whistle, a woodpecker tapping, a chainsaw buzzing. She swiped the screen as she’d watched other people do but the display remained a shiny black mirror, reflecting her scowl. It was laughing at her.
“Dammit, if you’re ringing, I can’t even answer you.” The gadget had her talking to herself.
Despite Tawny’s frustrated prodding, the screen remained blank, indifferent. Since Neal must have ordered it online, she couldn’t even take it back to a local store. She didn’t want a phone smarter than she was. But Neal apparently thought differently. She could almost hear him scolding, Come on, Mom, it’s 2011. Time you joined this century. If it wasn’t a gift from her son, she’d gladly smash it against the wall. Still might.
A different tone warbled five times. Was this an incoming call? Or had she accidentally told the thing to launch a missile?
She twisted the tail of her french braid. “I ought to call you Lucifer.”
It chirped.
“You like that name, huh? Well, it fits you.”
Tawny had used a basic cell, no problem, when her husband Dwight was sick. Flip it open, punch in numbers, and connect with doctors, the oxygen company, the pharmacy, and finally, on a July night nine months ago, one last call, to the funeral home. Her throat constricted at the memory.
But with Dwight gone, she’d cancelled the cell to save money and only used her home phone. How could she afford the service for this fancy new smartphone? She’d have to ask Neal the cost. If she ever figured out how to make a call.
Then she remembered the postcard and fished it out of the trash. Baffled by your smartphone? Free class. Easy, fun, impress your children and grandchildren.7 p.m. at the library in downtown Kalispell.
The class was tonight. What lucky timing, Tawny thought. Although if she went, she was afraid she might be the dumbest person there. But, dammit, she wouldn’t let an electronic device outsmart her.
Besides, she didn’t have anything better to do than sit home in the silent old house, listening to the phone’s mysterious beeps and whistles.
* * *
As Tawny walked through the entrance of the hundred-year-old library building, her palms began to sweat. The same wood table still sat in the corner where she’d spent endless hours of her childhood with a tutor, struggling to read. Her dad had always said, “Good thing you’re pretty, hon, cuz you sure are dumb.”
Years later, when her daughter Emma couldn’t read either, Tawny had learned about dyslexia, but knowing what to call her problem didn’t cure the weakness she still felt deep in her core. What a rotten joke to name a reading disorder so its victims could never hope to spell it.
This night, kids sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor, hunched almost double, their little noses buried in books. Adults wearing reading glasses tiptoed fingers along the shelves. How she envied people who read easily, even doing it for pleasure, something she couldn’t imagine.
At the front desk, she found a kind-faced young librarian. Showing the postcard, Tawny said, “There’s, uh, a class, I think.”
The librarian nodded and pointed to stairs at the far end of the room. “Second floor. In the meeting room. Lots of seniors.”
Seniors? How old did she think Tawny was? Well, according to AARP, she was now technically a senior, an uncomfortable milestone better forgotten. Thank goodness no one besides Neal had remembered her birthday. Tawny turned toward the stairs.
“Good
luck,” the woman called after her.
Was she being sarcastic?
Tawny skipped up the steps two at a time. I’ll show her who’s a senior.
On the second floor, walls of books hemmed her in, making her claustrophobic. She followed a pathway to a glassed-in cubicle. About a dozen gray-haired people milled inside the room, chatting and comparing smartphones. Did she really look as old as these folks? Probably, in the eyes of the young librarian. At least Tawny had company in her ignorance.
A dark, attractive man at the entrance made her draw in a breath. Strong wiry build, six feet or maybe a little taller. Crisp white shirt, ironed chinos, tweed sport coat. About forty, she guessed, with shaggy black hair and a thick mustache.
And startling, soulful green eyes.
He held a clipboard. Must be the teacher. Tawny approached. “Smartphone class?”
He grinned, showing perfect white teeth below the mustache. “Welcome,” he said.
Would that tickle if he kissed her? What are you thinking? Stop that! Guilt welled for feelings she thought had died with Dwight.
The man’s eyes crinkled with warmth and humor, almost as if he’d read her mind. “I am asking people to sign in with their name and cell number.” A hint of an accent she couldn’t place touched his speech. He handed her the clipboard and a pen.
“I can give you my name but I haven’t a clue what the number is. The phone was a gift. It goes ring-a-ding-ding but the screen just stays blank.”
“May I?” He held his hand out for her phone.
While she wrote her name on the sign-in sheet, he tapped and flicked the screen with a feathery touch. Suddenly the phone lit up, a bright glowing mountain scene. His index finger flew, changing the screen to strange icons she didn’t understand. Might as well have been hieroglyphics scratched on a pyramid wall.
After a few more flicks, he handed it back to her, the heat of his palm lingering on the device. “This is your number.”
Tawny felt embarrassed that she needed to put on her glasses to see the display. “How’d you do that?” Her voice sounded breathy. Must be amazement or a surprise rush of hormones. Yet when she looked into his green eyes, she felt a connection that stirred deep inside.
How she’d missed her man’s closeness during the eight long years of Dwight’s illness. She hoped she’d never let on to him the hunger she felt when he’d pulled away, no longer able to make love.
She shook the memories from her mind.
The dark man studied her, black brows drawn together, searching deeper into her thoughts. “Are you all right?” He glanced at the sign-in sheet. “Tawny? May I call you Tawny? I’m Kahlil Shahrivar.”
“Nice to meet you.” Beyond his good looks, she sensed concern, empathy, and, maybe, sadness in those eyes. “Thanks for making it work.”
His smile warmed her. “The brightness display was turned all the way down to save battery life. That is why you could not see anything. No magic.”
“Might as well be magic,” she murmured. “To me, it is.”
His hand brushed her upper arm, directing her through the door. “Let me show you how to peek behind the curtain. When you’re finished with this class, that phone will do everything for you except fold the laundry.”
She moved into the room, wishing his touch had lasted longer. “In that case, I need a different model. I specifically asked for one that does housework.”
* * *
Kahlil was a patient teacher as he explained how to take photos, record appointments on the calendar, and track heart rate. “If you think your phones are amazing now,” he said, “wait a couple of years.” Enthusiasm raised his soft voice. “Now we must remember a PIN or pattern code to unlock the phone. New devices are coming that will use your thumbprint, so no one except you can access your information. You will be able to lock and unlock the doors in your home and see inside even if you are half a world away. Your phone will track your grandchildren so you can keep them safe.”
An older gentleman with a pinched expression said, “Sounds like Big Brother,” which made everyone laugh.
Students practiced calling and texting each other. Tawny discovered a text from her son already on her phone, Hv fun w/ ur new toy. Watch 4 email w/ updated contact #. Love, Neal. I ought to spank your butt, you little brat, she thought, even though the little brat now stood six-three, a no-nonsense Army sergeant.
As people tried various tasks, she felt relieved not to be the dumbest student, even though Kahlil seemed to spend more time with her than the others. Hopefully nobody picked up on how she inhaled his masculine scent when he leaned close. Close enough that she spotted a small hearing aid inside his ear. Seemed young to be going deaf. Probably too much loud music as a teenager.
When the class broke up, a white-haired lady winked at Tawny. With a sly smile, she said, “Teacher’s pet.” Tawny’s cheeks burned. So, she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.
This is ridiculous, she thought. I can’t be interested in a younger guy, or any guy. She hurried from the room ahead of the other students and skipped down the stairs, out to Dwight’s old Jeep Wrangler.
She now knew the basics of using Lucifer. Mission accomplished.
* * *
The next morning, wrapped in her blue fleece robe, Tawny sipped coffee and nibbled rye toast while she labored to compose a reply text to her son, although she didn’t know when or if he might receive it.
Neal’s deployment to Afghanistan three months ago made her heart ache with worry, since he was often out of touch for weeks. She was proud when he made sergeant early, even though he never talked about his work, except for vague mentions of “intelligence.” She guessed he’d confided in Dwight, a Vietnam vet. Father and son used to talk for hours, huddled in the downstairs den, turning up the TV to cover their conversation.
Now silence hung heavy in their old house, so empty and hollow. How she missed them both. At least, one day, she’d be able to hug her boy again, admire the square jaw and steady gaze he’d inherited from his father. Please, son, come home safe.
She tapped the phone’s virtual keyboard, which kept correcting her spelling, changing Neal to neat. “Dammit!” she muttered. “What were you thinking, sending me this instrument of the devil?” She wanted to write, Dear Neal, thank you for the phone. I hate it. But that would be ungracious.
Fed up, Tawny padded barefoot down the hall on the hardwood floor to check email in Neal’s old bedroom, now her office. On her laptop, she found the promised message from him with a new phone number to the Rear Detachment. Dwight used to poke fun at the “rear echelon motherfuckers” in Vietnam who stayed safely behind the action at a base. He scoffed that they were only useful for emptying trash cans.
But Tawny appreciated Rear Detachment for the emergency lifeline between deployed soldiers and family back home. They had treated her kindly and helped her get a message to Neal during the last gasping week of Dwight’s life. On the smartphone, she carefully created a new contact for “Rear D” and saved the number.
She finished off the thank-you text to Neal and sent it. At least she hoped it had been sent. Every time she touched the smartphone, a new unexpected screen popped up, full of choices she didn’t understand, like Tethering, NFC, Air View.
Kahlil had helped her through basic tasks at the library. She might’ve learned more if she hadn’t been so distracted by his sensual way of stroking the screen, his softly-accented speech. He reminded her of Omar Sharif from the old movie, Dr. Zhivago.
Kahlil. What kind of name was that? Sounded exotic, romantic, yet vaguely familiar. Then it hit her. In her daughter’s purple bedroom, Tawny pulled down a box of books from the top shelf of the closet and set them on the furry zebra-striped bedspread. She’d wanted to donate them to Salvation Army but Emma protested. Somehow, unlike Tawny, Emma had overcome her reading difficulty and loved books. Whenever she came home, she promised to get her own place and take the books with her. Hadn’t happened yet. She lived like a nomad
in a van with her tattoo artist boyfriend.
Tawny dug among the books. Phew, mildew. The slim volume she was looking for turned up near the bottom.
The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran. Emma had all but memorized the book during high school. At the dinner table, she was forever quoting passages of romantic, mystical poetry that didn’t rhyme. Tawny understood the appeal. Dwight would never speak such words to her but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t have loved to hear them.
Tawny carried the box to the patio and spread the books on the picnic table to air out in the warm sun. Then she got dressed, pulling on black leggings and a sleeveless coral spandex top for Zumba class. Working out had been her salvation while Dwight was sick. Now, though, she had to force herself to leave the house. Exercise temporarily lifted her out of the pit of loneliness but didn’t take away the ache in her heart, the pressure in the back of her throat.
In the mud room, she donned a denim jacket and went out the back door. In the detached garage off the alley, she climbed up into Dwight’s Wrangler. The rig bounced like a balky mule, but her brawny husband had loved it. She’d sold her comfortable Explorer because driving the Jeep made her feel closer to him, and, besides, she couldn’t afford the expense of two cars.
On the way to the gym, Tawny stopped at the bank’s drive-up ATM and withdrew $200. The balance on the receipt caught her eye. Couldn’t be right. She dug in her bag for her readers, put them on, and verified the amount.
$47,281.06.
Impossible.
The checking account normally hovered around $5,000. This was $42,000 too much. Must be a computer error.
She parked the car and went inside the bank lobby, irritated. Once she’d badgered herself into leaving the house, she hated to miss Zumba class, especially for a mistake.
