Burke's Revenge: Bob Burke Suspense Thriller #3 (Bob Burke Action Adventure Novels)

by William Brown

  Shaw had now been away from Fayetteville for almost two weeks, and he had not told anyone of his plans to leave town, much less traipse off to the war zone in Syria. When he checked his voice mail, he expected to find a lot of crap, and that was exactly what he found, and then some. Starting with his office, he went through twenty-seven voicemails, most of which had been left in the last four days. Dismissing the ones from students with questions on grades or upcoming classes, he paid more attention to almost a dozen from the department and the college that wanted to know where the hell he was.

  Fred Gadsden was the “Chairperson” of the Department of Human Group Interaction, formerly known as the Department of Sociology. If you looked closely, you could still see the department’s less-politically-correct old name outlined in the paint underneath the new lettering on their office doors. That was why Shaw enjoyed listening to Gadsden’s increasingly shrill and officious rants in the voicemails he had left over the past week. He was such a horse’s ass.

  “Henry, this is Fred. Gladys, my Admin Assistant, hasn’t had much luck finding you, and there’s a lot of paperwork you need to attend to for your fall semester classes… Henry, Fred again. Give me a call or stop by the office. This is mucho importante, if you get my drift… Henry, look, we have people enrolling for your classes, and I need to get all those forms back. Call me… Henry, look, where the hell are you man?… Henry, if you’re not gonna teach the goddamned classes, then I’ll have to bring in a sub… Henry, enough is enough! Nobody can find you anywhere, and if I haven’t heard from you by 5:00 p.m. today, I’m giving your classes to someone else. That’s it!”

  Heathrow was almost empty at 2:00 a.m., so it didn’t matter how loud Shaw laughed. At that hour, very few of the haggard travelers lying on the benches spoke English anyway, but the next few messages got even more interesting. Gadsden’s voice dropped to a nervous whisper as he said, “Henry, I’ve had three phone calls today from the FBI about your getting kidnapped or somehow involved with terrorist groups in Turkey. I’m a reasonable guy, but it’s imperative that you clear this up. And just so you know, I’m officially advising you that we’ve asked Jeff Bloomberg to take over your class here, and the one over at Bragg. You can consider yourself suspended.”

  So, they gave my classes to Jeff Bloomberg, Shaw looked at the phone and reflected. Well, there’s another pain in the ass I’ll enjoy disposing of! He couldn’t be happier to be rid of those classes, but they had suddenly become an integral part of Aslan Khan’s plan, and he had to be at the podium when they started. Then there was a final phone call from Jason Schrempf, the Dean of Arts and Sciences, in his sonorous, baritone voice, telling him, “Professor Shaw, the FBI’s informed us that you have been detained for questioning in Cyprus based on some complaints from the Turkish government. As Fred Gadsden has already told you, your College faculty privileges have been suspended, so I’d appreciate you coming in and meeting with President Ringgold and myself at your earliest convenience.”

  The FBI had informed them? It was that goddamned Pendergrass again! It would be another fifteen hours before he arrived in Charlotte, thanks to two more connecting flights through Toronto and JFK. That should be more than enough time to put the final touches on his plan for dealing with the college and with that twit Jeff Bloomberg. When Shaw did his undergraduate studies at UCLA, he remembered the stories about the Gold Rush days in California, when a man could get himself shot for “claim jumping,” and there’d be no questions asked. As he recalled, Jeff Bloomberg came from New York, from Brooklyn, based on his silly accent, instead of from California. Too bad, otherwise Jeff might know better.

  But to be back in North Carolina! It sounded so delightful after what he had been through over the past weeks. The fall semester had already started and tasty young coeds would be lying around the quadrangle in bikinis and halter tops that very afternoon. He had always been their “favorite” professor, and when he would take one of them, or one of his more “experienced” teaching assistants for a ride in the country, it would be in his iconic 1997 Peugeot 205 GTI hatchback — French, of course — a faded white, with just the right amount of rust on its fenders and rocker panels to give it character, just like him. Shaw’s vision was a perfect 20-20. He didn’t need glasses, but he always wore a pair of bright-red, horn-rimmed, Armani frames with clear lenses around campus, because… well, because he liked them, and he could. With his stylishly tousled blond hair, an open-collared white shirt, and an old-school tweed sports coat, the Peugeot provided the perfect cachet for a modern-day American college professor, he thought. With a perky, eager-to-please coed snuggled up next to him and the wind blowing through his hair, he could cruise for hours in his 20-year-old classic, enjoying the views as they went into the hills for a “picnic” amid the mountain laurel.

  Speaking of tasty coeds, Shaw picked up the phone and placed another international call. When a female voice answered on the fourth ring, it was a sleepy Stephanie Brisbane, his latest teaching assistant and enthusiastic veteran of several of his “rides.” Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and busty, she was inventive, cooperative, and juicy, perhaps ten pounds overweight, just the right amount to pinch and hang on to. Yeah, he thought, she was the perfect choice.

  “Stephanie, Henry Shaw here…”

  “Oh, Professor! I’m so glad you called. The Dean, the department, they’ve all been…”

  “Yeah, I know. Just a little misunderstanding, which I’m getting straightened out with the Department. By the way, I wonder if you can do a little favor for me?”

  “Oh, anything, Professor, anything… you know that.”

  “You’re a doll, Steph. Look, my flight’s landing at Charlotte at 4:30 tomorrow afternoon. I had everything stolen from me over there, including my wallet, my keys, the whole works. I’m gonna need a room tomorrow night, since I won’t be able to get into my apartment until I find the manager. Can you call the Quality Inn, and…?”

  “Oh, there’s no need for that, you know you can stay at my place.”

  “Are you sure, Steph?”

  “Don’t be silly, Henry. It isn’t as if… well, you know.”

  “How could I forget, Steph, and that will be really great, because I really missed you and it’ll give us a chance to catch up. One thing, though, we’ll have to keep this strictly between the two of us. Understand? We’ll both be in a lot of trouble if the college finds out.”

  “Don’t worry, I don’t kiss and tell… or do anything else and tell,” she giggled.

  “I knew I could count on you. Look, I have a couple of things I need to straighten out with TSA in Charlotte, so I may not be at your place until ten-ish.”

  “Whenever, I’ll be waiting. Just make sure you get plenty of sleep on that airplane, because I don’t want you falling asleep on me.”

  “Literally, or figuratively?” he answered suggestively and heard her giggle. “Don’t worry, I’ll try real hard not to disappoint. See you then,” he said as he hung up with a smile on his face. No doubt, Steph’ll be a lot of fun, and she’ll make the perfect alibi — one he would only divulge if push came to shove. Then again, if push really did come to shove, the lovely Stephanie could disappear as easily as that twit Jeff Bloomberg was about to, and anyone else who got in his way or interfered with his plans.

  Henry Shaw’s airplane landed at Charlotte at 4:37 p.m. By the time he argued his way through Immigration and Customs with only a temporary passport and no luggage, it was almost 6:00 p.m. before he was out on the street. Having no car keys, it was a good thing that old French cars were notoriously easy to hot-wire, a skill he retained from his wayward youth in LA. The two-and-a-half-hour drive from Charlotte to Fayetteville could have been a lot faster if Route 27 was an interstate, but it wasn’t. It was a twisting, turning country road, the kind he loved to drive if he wasn’t in a hurry.

  Tonight, however, he wanted to get home as quickly as possible, because he had a job to do. The road took him through the Uwharrie National Forest. It
went through the middle of nowhere and was one of the most scenic roads in the state, especially in the early evening with the long yellow and orange rays of the setting sun filtering through the trees. There were numerous turnoffs left and right into one-lane logging roads, making great places to bury a body, he thought. He could plant Jeff Bloomberg out here later tonight and they never would find his sorry ass, but Shaw knew he didn’t have enough time to go to Fayetteville, then back here, and then back to Fayetteville again. No, he would go to Plan B. Or was it Plan C or D? What difference did it make, he laughed aloud. Bloomberg was already a dead man walking; he just didn’t know it yet.

  He arrived in Fayetteville at 8:30 p.m. as the sun set, giving him time to drive past Bloomberg’s tacky little suburban Cape Cod house in the Cross Creek neighborhood, three miles west of campus. The Blue Ridge College faculty had always been a small, incestuous lot, and Shaw had always been one to pay attention to small details, especially when it came to his peers, rivals, and enemies. Bloomberg was one of the younger professors in the “Soc” Department. It had a pre-set number of tenured faculty positions, so it was an actuarial zero-sum game, requiring some “proactive career enhancement” to eliminate the peskier competition, if a fellow didn’t want to be left behind as an Associate Professor for the rest of his career.

  As he drove past Bloomberg’s little house, he saw it was dark. It did not have a garage, and Shaw did not see Bloomberg’s crappy beige Hyundai Elantra parked out front, where it usually was. Knowing what a tightwad nerd the guy was, Shaw doubted Bloomberg would be out partying, or even out for dinner, unless he opted for the late-night “Two-Fer” menu at Taco Bell. Shaw continued and drove to campus, making a quick loop around the department office building. The twerp’s second-floor office lights were on, and Shaw saw that Bloomberg had the nerve to park his cheap Korean import Hyundai in the space Shaw reserved for his Peugeot! The asphalt was accustomed to a fine, classic car like his Peugeot sitting there, and he was surprised it hadn’t buckled. That sealed Bloomberg’s fate! Up ’til now, this had all been “business.” Now, it had suddenly become deeply personal. As Shaw looked at the Hyundai, he knew he would dearly love to make Bloomberg suffer for this affront, but to inflict quality pain took more time than he had tonight.

  He parked his Peugeot around the corner and out of sight from the building’s front door, put on a pair of expensive, paper-thin Italian leather driving gloves, and removed the tire iron from his trunk. He took a few practice swings, rolling his wrists to loosen up his forearms, like a big leaguer warming up in the On-Deck Circle. He knew the whole trick was to leave no fingerprints, no footprints, and no breadcrumbs, literal or figurative, that would show he was anywhere near here tonight. The magnetic door locks on the building didn’t activate until 9:00 p.m., and he got inside with two minutes to spare. He immediately went to the campus internal phone mounted on the lobby wall, and dialed Bloomberg’s office number. “Per-fessor,” he said, lowering his voice a few octaves and using a passable Carolina accent. “This here’s Clemmons with Security. Could you come on outside for a minute? Ah’m afraid somebody been messin’ wif yer car.”

  “My car? Really? Uh, yeah, I’ll be right out,” Bloomberg said, and quickly hung up.

  Shaw was waiting outside, around the corner behind a bush. Moments later, Bloomberg came running out of the building, keys in hand. When he got halfway to his car and didn’t see a security guard or anyone else around, he stopped dead in his tracks.

  That was when Henry Shaw stepped up behind him with the tire iron in his right hand, pressed against his pants leg, as he said “Hi, Jeff, I hear you’ve been poaching.”

  Bloomberg spun around and backed up a step when he saw who it was. “Shaw? What are you…? And what do you mean ‘poaching’? You have no one to blame but yourself.”

  “Really?” Shaw replied as he took a step forward, and suddenly pointed to his right, beyond Bloomberg, “What the hell?” he asked.

  Without thinking, Bloomberg turned and looked too. As he did, Shaw brought the tire iron around and struck Bloomberg across the right side of his head above the ear, hard enough to make his knees wobble and “ring his bell,” but not hard enough to knock him out. Shaw wanted him stunned, but conscious, so he would feel the pain, and Bloomberg cooperated perfectly. Bloomberg was about to collapse on the sidewalk when Shaw caught him, reached inside his jacket, and pulled out his old Ka-Bar knife. It had a thick blade, which Shaw kept razor-sharp. He reached it around to the other side of Bloomberg’s neck and drew it back, cutting deep, slicing through muscles, tendons, veins, and his throat, quick and deep, almost down to the neck bone. Blood gushed out left, right, and forward, but standing behind him, Shaw avoided the splatter as he let Bloomberg topple forward.

  “I warned you about poaching, Jeff. Too bad, so sad, but there’s always a price.”

  He picked up Bloomberg’s car keys and pressed the button to open the trunk of his Hyundai. Grabbing the younger man by his belt, Shaw lifted him off the concrete and dumped him inside. Less than a mile west of the campus was Bragg Boulevard, a busy, four-lane road, which stretched from downtown Fayetteville to the Army post. In the middle, it also had the highest concentration of gay bars in the county. It took Shaw less than five minutes to drive to Bragg Boulevard in the Hundai, turn north, and park behind “My Secrets,” a well-known hang-out for the “rough trade” leather and biker crowd in the middle of a long strip of “anything goes” clubs. With a clientele that preferred to remain “discreet,” exterior lighting in the parking lot at the rear of the building was understandably nonexistent.

  Shaw knew the serious action inside these places wouldn’t pick up until after midnight, so it was easy to find dark parking place behind the building next to the dumpster. Taking a quick look around and seeing that he was alone, Shaw popped the trunk, dragged Bloomberg’s body out, and tossed him inside the dumpster.

  “Easy peasey,” he laughed to himself as he stuck the tire iron down his pants leg, took off his gloves and put them in his pocket, and walked away. He estimated it would take a day or two for anyone to find Bloomberg’s body, depending on how often the trash was picked up. Then again, given the mental acuity of your average sanitation worker, they might never notice the body if Bloomberg didn’t fall out at their feet. Shaw looked at his watch and saw it was now 9:20. It shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes for him to get back on campus to his own car and another ten to drive to Stephanie’s apartment. Perfect timing, as usual, he thought, as she would soon find out.

  He walked north until he reached the corner of campus, where the street met Cross Creek, a dark, densely wooded stream that ran along one side of Blue Ridge College. A few hundred yards further, he found a spot where the creek had a wide, deep, pool in the center. He wiped the tire iron in the grass, tossed it into the center of the dark pool, and threw Bloomberg’s car keys in after it. That should do, he thought, as he continued walking to his own car, which he had left parked by the department building.

  Stephanie Brisbane lived in a cheap apartment complex that catered to graduate students several miles northwest of campus, near the Highway 401 beltway. He’d slept with her a couple of times over the past two years, once here in her apartment, so he knew where it was located. They’d also had sex several times in his office when she was in one of his classes and came to see him during his “open door” hours, and then again when he took her on a “picnic” in the mountains, although there had been so many others he couldn’t remember the details. What he did remember was that Stephanie was one of the most enthusiastic partners he had found here on campus, which helped her application to be his teaching assistant this semester immensely.

  He double-checked to see if anyone had followed him, circled her apartment complex and took a last, long look at the parking lot. He saw no one watching, so he walked up to her door and knocked. A few seconds later, it opened wide and he found Stephanie standing in front of him in a white terrycloth bathrobe, her blonde hai
r tumbling down to her shoulders.

  “God, you look gorgeous, Steph; and it’s been way too long,” he told her as he stepped inside, closed the door, and held his arms open for her.

  “Why, Professor Shaw, you’re going to make me blush,” she said as she let the robe slowly open and fall on the floor. She stood there for a moment and let him take it all in, before she stepped into his arms and let him pull her close. As they kissed, her hands went to his belt, she opened his pants, and put her hand inside. “I’d say it has been a long time, hasn’t it?” she grinned up at him, took his hand, and pulled him down the hall toward her bedroom.

  As they passed the living room, he saw a petite, dusky-skinned brunette lying on the couch reading a textbook. Her glasses were riding on the tip of her nose as she watched them pass by. “That’s my roommate, Amy,” Stephanie said. “You remember Amy, don’t you? She says she remembers you.” Shaw looked over and he did remember the girl, probably from another delicious picnic or two several years before. “She told me she’s jealous.”

  Shaw looked at both of them and stopped. “Well, we can’t have that, can we, Steph. I’m sure there’s enough lovin’ here to go around… if it’s okay with you of course,” he added.

  Stephanie held out her other hand to Amy, and soon they were shedding their remaining clothes as they walked down the hallway to the back bedroom.