by Julia Shupe
I settled into the cushioning of the booth. “I bet she was happy to hear this news.”
“Definitely an understatement.”
Dropping my head, I closed my eyes, the florescent lights like the sun against my sleep-starved lids. “So we’re back to the same place we started, aren’t we? Who is Smith? What’s his name? Where the hell is he from? And now that we’ve chased him from the shadows into the light, what the hell is he going to do next? Where does he go from here?”
For a moment, we were silent. I’d posed difficult questions, none of which we knew the answers to.
“We’ve still got the fungal sinusitis angle,” Gil offered, checking his phone for the hundredth time.
“Fantastic,” I said, “but we screwed that up, too. We invaded the place where he liked to hold his victims hostage. With one powerful round of antibiotics, he can rid himself of that nasty infection, which puts us back in the same place we started—nowhere.” I suddenly felt hopeless. With no place to start and not a shred of physical evidence, we may as well hand this over to the feds.
The waitress finished taking our order, and I boldly asked the question I dreaded most. “What do you think the FBI will do?”
Jacob shrugged. “Stay here, I suppose. Camp out. Create a task force. This is big time, Ness. We’ll likely be here for quite a while.” I noticed he’d avoided the spirit of my question.
Gil was fiddling with his phone, making calls, and it was starting to get on my nerves. “What’s up over there? Can’t you let the poor woman sleep?”
“She had an early appointment this morning.” He frowned. “She should be up by now, getting ready for work, drinking coffee.”
“For God’s sake, Gil, let the woman shower in peace. Besides, your chicken fried steak is on its way. And what the hell is that anyway? Chicken or steak?”
My stupid jokes weren’t making him smile. “I couldn’t reach her last night, either,” he murmured.
“I want the two of you to know something,” Jacob said, “I’m planning to make you both permanent fixtures on this case. You’ve done well—better than well, actually. I’m sure the Captain would agree. I’m also sure that he’ll—”
The ring of Gil’s phone sounded shrill in the small café. I could see that the caller on the screen wasn’t Abbie. It was her office, and I suddenly felt queasy.
He fumbled the phone, practically dropping it into his cup of black coffee. “Abbs? Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. “I’ve been calling all night. I—”
I watched the color drain from his face, and the hand that was holding his phone turn white. He began to tremble. “When,” he demanded. “When was the last time anyone saw her?”
My body went rigid and I reached across the table. Gil lifted his gaze to meet mine.
“What?” I whispered.
He didn’t answer me. “No,” he was telling the person on the phone. “I haven’t been home all night. I was working. Go look outside. Is her car parked out back? Third space from the left of the front door.” He pushed himself up and began to pace. “I’m not hanging up. I’m staying right here. Go look at parking space number three.”
The next few minutes crawled by like hours. I couldn’t sit still, but was frozen in my seat. A tiny voice started whispering in my head, and though I knew where this was leading, I still couldn’t face it.
“Okay,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Now go to her office. Turn on her computer. She was seeing a new client last night—a man. I need you to give me the name written on her calendar. Tell me the name.” His face had turned red.
My vision tunneled black. Jacob was taut at my side, hands flat on the table. His gaze was fierce as it bore into Gil. Gil was pacing like a caged tiger, and I suddenly became aware of the ambient noise: spoons clinking inside ceramic mugs, dishes clattering, conversations humming.
Gil’s knuckles were white against the phone. “The name,” he spat. “Give me the name.”
I could hear muffled words but not the name that was given. But I didn’t need to hear; it was written on his face. He fell to his knees and I sprang from the booth. I ran to his side, crouched, and tried to hold him up.
“Who,” I whispered in his ear. “What’s the name?”
“Archer,” he whispered, falling against my body. “She met with Carlton Archer, Vanessa. Smith has taken my wife.”
A Shameless Request
Dear Reader,
I sincerely hope you enjoyed Carved in Stone. Nothing means more than your voice and your words. A review of what you’ve read—even if just a sentence or two—would mean so much.
Thank you!
Click HERE to post a review.
Julia Shupe
P.S. Keep turning the page to read the first chapter of Barren Waters, Hollywood Book Festival’s “Best Science fiction novel of 2017”.
Hope you like it!
Barren Waters
A Post-Apocalyptic Tale of Survival
chapter 1
I really don't know why it is that all of us are so committed to the sea, except I think it's because in addition to the fact that the sea changes, and the light changes, and ships change, it's because we all came from the sea. And it is an interesting biological fact that all of us have in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and, therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea—whether it is to sail or to watch it—we are going back from whence we came.
—John F. Kennedy
November 20th, 2176
Somewhere outside Chattanooga, Tennessee
2,147 miles to San Diego
“Samantha. Sam, wake up.” Cursing himself, he shook her bodily, “Sam, come on. Come back to me.”
Though he poked and prodded her, she remained unresponsive. This was his fault, his failing. He laid a cool cloth across her forehead and cursed aloud. How could he have been so stupid? So reckless? He’d known she was low, but hadn’t listened to the whispering voice inside his head. He’d been foolish, imprudent, doggedly persistent. Why hadn’t he heeded his carefully honed instinct? That voice in his head often managed to make sense. But it was also the voice that seemed quieter each day, and for a moment, he wondered: had he finally lost himself? Somehow, after suffering all of this pain, somewhere along this agonizing journey, had he left a vital piece of himself behind?
Wanting them to make it as far as Huntsville in a week, he thought he’d feel better once they crossed the Alabama border. But what would be the point? To say they’d gone an extra fifty miles? To prove they could cross a state line within a month? What was he trying to do? To prove? And to whom was he trying to prove it? When all was said and done, whose agenda did they adhere to? He set the boundaries. He made the rules—which could have just as easily been broken.
And that’s exactly what I should have done, he thought, frowning as he regarded her prone body.
“Sam. Come on, Pike. Open your eyes.”
When he ran his hand along her scalp, his fingers came away damp. He should have known better. He knew all the signs. By now, he was a master at recognizing them. About thirty minutes ago, she’d begun to appear fuzzy. Fuzzy, he remarked. Fuzzy in the head. That’s how he liked to describe it. She’d stare off at nothing, eyes unfocused, muscles in her face gone slack. After that, she’d become irritable and cantankerous, or worse, flat and emotionless. And it was at times like those that he preferred a grumpy Sam. Grumpy was considered an emotion, at least. It was the dullness that frightened him so, the times when the edges of her smile bled to a frown, when her face went blank and the sheen left her eyes.
These past few days, he’d been pushing her too hard. And while he had to admit, they’d made excellent progress, they’d also been blessed with a bit of luck along the way. But Jeremy had always believed luck was a double-edged sword. Good luck could easily turn bad. And fast. It was something he knew all too well. Pe
rsonal experience was often the best teacher.
But, of late, they’d been fortunate. In Knoxville, fate had delivered them the bikes. Well, he reconsidered, it had been her idea, and he had to give credit where credit was due. Perhaps fate hadn’t intervened after all. Her idea had been a brilliant one. They’d been following the sleek curves of Neyland Drive, which clung to the contours of the Tennessee River, and somehow, she’d seen the sign for the University of Tennessee. It was remarkable that she’d seen it at all. Weeds and tall grasses had expelled it from the earth, ejecting it like it was a cancerous growth. It had been leaning on its side, base bent and corroded by rust. The lettering had long since faded, the red paint now chipped and worn free, fungi crawling over its every nook and cranny, beginning its slow digestive process.
“Wouldn’t there be bikes at a university?” she’d queried.
“Probably rusted heaps of twisted metal by now, Sam.”
She’d frowned at that, tiny wrinkles creasing her brow. “You’re such a pessimist. You don’t know that for sure. We should at least go check it out. What do we have to lose?”
And so they had. And she’d been right. Having initially picked through the rusted heaps of twisted metal, still chained to racks at the edge of the campus lawn, they’d decided to search the domiciles, and after glumly inspecting more than thirty or so rooms, they’d finally hit pay dirt. He’d hoped to find some discarded old clothing, fabric that wasn’t moth-eaten or pilled, or a hidden bottle of water or seltzer, or a fresh pair of tennies not split at the soles.
But damned if fortune hadn’t smiled that day, smiled, and shown a bit of teeth. Against insurmountable odds, in one of the supply closets behind a pile of suitcases, they’d found a neat row of bikes with gleaming polished frames: red, blue, silver, and orange, with glinting steel spokes and firm tires. Flat tires—yes—but firm and usable, made of thick rubber with deep treads. As nothing else had done in weeks, the sight had lifted Jeremy’s battered spirit. He’d taken the gift and run with it, so to speak. The tires had needed air, and the chains a bit of oil, but it was a treasure trove of good fortune. He’d been thankful.
The bikes had been in such excellent condition that he’d truly hated taking only two of them. Who knew when the tires would pop or run flat, or when the brake pads would disintegrate to dust. But he’d ignored that insufferable negativity. Best not to think about things in those terms. Like a pessimist, she’d said, and he knew she was right.
Besides, he’d told himself, they’d become desperate.
Before the bikes, they’d been walking for weeks, and he had started to feel the beginning stages of panic. And it wasn’t the walking that slowed their progress. Ironically, it was the cart itself, the vessel that was their livelihood, containing everything they needed to make this journey. The ark, so aptly named, was a burden. But it was also a necessary one. A vital one. Without their supplies, they’d be dead in a matter of weeks.
Even with the bikes, you won’t make it, the voice hissed. Not with enough time to spare.
The thought, when it came, sparked renewed panic, and he refocused his attempts to rouse her.
“Come on, Pike,” he said, ignoring the sinister voice as he shook her again. “Time to come back to planet earth.”
He peered beneath an eyelid then lifted her arm to examine the glowing numbers at her wrist. Forty-eight. Good. She was coming out of it. Lifting her head, he coaxed juice into her mouth, though most of it dribbled down her chin. She’d come around soon, he told himself. She always did. But that didn’t stop him from feeling like shit. He needed to be more thoughtful and attentive. He couldn’t rely on what she told him. Her diet was unstable, her sleep unpredictable, her stress levels beyond what was normal for her age. This, a trifecta, was bad for anyone, but downright dangerous for a diabetic. Even with the disks, she could experience unpredicted highs and lows, particularly after periods of intense physical exertion. But that was something that couldn’t be helped. He was doing his best with what he’d been given. There was a light at the end of this long, narrow tunnel, and he’d push her into it with his last dying breath. It was out there. He felt it. He knew it without a doubt.
Are you certain? the little voice sneered in his head.
Yes, he thought defiantly. I’m certain.
It had to be there. It was the point of this journey. To find a place that would bring her stability. He just wished stability wasn’t so far away. He needed to get her there. Fast.
He lifted her arm and inspected the numbers. Fifty-two. She should be waking any moment now.
“Sam. Can you open your eyes for me?” He massaged her hands and arms, and regarded the boniness of her elbows and knees. She was far too thin. He pushed the thought away.
Eyes fluttering, and with a sudden twitch of her hands, a lazy smile spread across her face.
“Who’s Sam?” she muttered weakly. “The name’s Pike.”
He sighed. “Right. Of course. But are you sure you want Pike? Wouldn’t you prefer Anchovy or Orange Roughy?” He tucked a sweaty lock of hair behind her ear. “Pike is a boy’s name, Sam.”
She allowed him to lift her and prop her against his thigh, and she held her juice with hands that trembled in a way that set his teeth on edge.
“It’s not a boy’s name,” she admonished him lightly. “I just like it. It suits me. It’s a solid choice. And besides, you chose Carp, of all things. That’s a terrible choice. Doesn’t suite you at all. You’re more of a Bass, or a Salmon, or an Eel.”
“An Eel? Hell no.” He smiled in spite of himself. “I’ll take Carp, thank you very much, or Thresher. You have to admit: Thresher is kind of cool.” He inhaled through his nostrils and offered an astute analysis. “So here’s the deal. Listen up. Salmon is a nerd’s name. Bass is a girl’s name. And Eel is a pervert’s name, so I’m definitely not comfortable with Eel. So that leaves Carp. Final answer.” He supported her neck and pushed the cup toward her mouth. “Drink up. We’re done for the day.”
“We’re done?” He watched thoughts spin through her head. “Where’d you come up with Thresher, anyway? What kind of fish was a thresher?”
“Wasn’t a fish,” he said. “Was a shark.” He pulled a kerchief from a pocket of his cargo pants. “Though I’m afraid it’s long extinct—extinct, along with everything else.”
A bubble of laughter escaped her throat. “A shark? Oh no. Then you’re definitely not a Thresher. You were right the first time. Carp is better.” She dismally pushed clumps of hair from her face and peered toward the side of the road, where her bike had fallen to the ground. “Was it bad? Did I fall? Did I ruin the bike?”
“Nope. Caught you before you fell. Saw it coming. You got fuzzy again. Knew it would happen.”
Crinkling her nose, she set down her cup. “I hate that word. Don’t say it like that. People don’t get fuzzy, Carp.”
When she lifted her damp shirt to inspect the meter, two inches from her navel, his belly painfully clenched.
“Thirty-eight percent,” she called out, lifting her head and boldly meeting his gaze. “That’s why we’re in such a hurry, isn’t it? We’re running out of disks. Tell the truth.”
The lie came easily to his lips. “We’re not running out of disks, Pike. I swear.”
“Okay. Then show me how many we’ve got left.”
Lifting his fist, he shook it at her. “How about I show you a knuckle sandwich instead?”
She groaned, and rolling her eyes, pushed herself to her feet, bouncing on her heels to test the strength in her legs.
“Fine. Don’t tell me. But you know I’m not stupid. I’ll just look inside your pack when you’re sleeping.”
His hand reflexively moved to his pocket, where he traced the outline of the disks against his thigh. Their familiar shape brought immediately comfort.
“So, how far did we make it, anyway?” she asked.
He stood up and dusted off his jeans. “Not far. If you didn’t get fuzzy, you’d remember.
”
She ignored that. “Didn’t make it to Huntsville I presume?”
“Nope. Not even close. We’re somewhere outside Chattanooga.”
“Chattanooga?” She lifted the tail of her shirt and mopped the sweat from her brow, the gesture reminding him of his own discomforts. Ignoring them, he peered westward. Though the sun had slipped beneath the horizon, it was still hot as hell. Unnaturally hot. Or was this the new natural now? This was summer, autumn, winter, and spring: the thickness of the heat; the alien fungi, the species that seemed to have taken over the world. It claimed everything with its greedy lithe fingers. This was the new climate now, the new standard. There was no escaping this heat.
And the heat was the least of their troubles. What of the thinner air that occasionally caused intense moments of panic? Every now and then, if they pushed themselves too hard, they would succumb to dizziness and poor coordination, and to the curious black spots that preceded unconsciousness. The planet’s oxygen levels were much lower now, and the death of the world’s oceans was the cause. And discomfort wasn’t relegated to the highest elevations anymore. It was uncomfortable everywhere now. Uncomfortable and hot, he thought with distaste. Maybe he just missed the cooler mountain air.
“Let’s set up camp by the river,” she suggested, lifting her bike and kicking the stand to the ground.
“I’m warning you, Sam. It’s gonna stink down there.”
“No it won’t. It’s not so bad. Don’t you ever get used to certain smells? If you give it long enough, you don’t notice it anymore.” She shouldered her pack and swayed beneath its weight.
Eying her warily, he said: “We’re not going anywhere unless you eat something first.”
He searched through his pack and found a bottle of water and a very old Balance Bar, and leaning against a rotting old tree, he took comfort in watching her eat it. What was this fascination she’d developed with the river? It had been her idea to follow it in the first place. And it really did smell—even from here. Not of fish, or of plants, or of common river tang. There were no fish. Not for decades now. No. It was worse, a chemical and caustic smell, an acetic and corrosive perfume reminiscent of bleach, fertilizer, or pesticide. It lifted with the delicate breeze, burned the nose and tickled the throat. The water was infectious. He hated to look upon it.
