by C. A. Shives
Contents
Persecution
Copyright
Dedication
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
Epilogue
C.A. Shives Books
PERSECUTION
C.A. Shives
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PERSECUTION
All rights reserved.
Published by Firestorm Editions
Copyright 2014 by C.A. SHIVES
Cover art by Indie Designz
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.
First Printing: January, 2015
Printed in the United States of America
To T.R.W.
You’re a true friend.
CHAPTER 1
NOVEMBER 2 — FRIDAY EVENING
The brown paper bag slipped from Charlotte’s arms, splitting open as it hit the hard asphalt. A jar of mayonnaise rolled behind the tire of her Ford truck and she knelt to retrieve it. “Damn,” she muttered. Antifreeze soaked through the knee of her blue jeans, the neon green puddle a leftover from the previous occupant of the parking space.
The sharp stab on her neck felt like the sting of a wasp, although in the recesses of her mind she knew the bees and wasps had been chased away by the autumn weather that swirled the crisp air around the collar of her cotton sweater. Her slender finger touched the painful spot, and she had just enough time to think I don’t feel a stinger before her sight blurred. Charlotte turned her head. She saw a fuzzy figure standing behind her, and then the parking lot faded from her sight and into blackness.
~ ~ ~ ~
The thump in her head felt like a hammer against her skull. Heavy. Hard. Incessant. Her mind was a haze of images, their edges muddy and indistinct. Charlotte tried to move her hands and couldn’t understand why they seemed immobile. Curled in the fetal position, her body refused to obey her orders.
A thud shook her body, bumping her against hard metal. She could feel the coarse fibers of cheap carpet against her cheek. She opened her eyes, and in that instant she understood everything.
The dim interior of the car’s trunk permitted her to see the outlines of her surroundings. Black cable ties bound her hands together in front of her body. Her legs were wedged between a spare tire and a cardboard box. Fast food sandwich wrappers and paper cups littered the trunk’s interior. The space smelled of exhaust fumes and transmission fluid and Big Macs.
The jostling of the vehicle bounced her head against the hard floor of the trunk, exacerbating the headache that clouded her thinking. She considered pounding her fists against the metal above her. She thought about screaming for help. But she heard only the hum of the car that held her hostage, and in her heart she knew her efforts would be in vain.
Save your strength, she thought to herself. Save your energy. You have no idea what is happening. No idea what will happen. You need to be smart.
Charlotte reached for the necklace that was tucked inside her sweater. The chain and its pendant—a gold lightning bolt—had been a gift from the man she loved. A memento of a night they spent together, watching a thunderstorm from the porch of a rented cabin. Though she loathed to part with it, she ripped the delicate chain from her neck and tossed the necklace toward the back of the trunk.
Someone might find it, she thought. And then maybe they’ll find me, too.
She heard the crunch of gravel beneath the tires as the vehicle slowed, and then felt it roll to a stop. The sound of a car door closing and the approaching footsteps squeezed her heart with dread. She steeled herself, knowing in moments she would see the face of her captor.
The fading sun, red and orange as it struck the horizon, blinded her momentarily when the trunk opened. And then she saw him. His face. His grin. His fleshy lips spread wide over white teeth.
“Hello, Charlotte,” he said. “I see you’ve awakened.”
CHAPTER 2
NOVEMBER 3 — SATURDAY EVENING
Artemis Herne felt the tension hanging in the air, thick and heavy like a weighted blanket. His Saturday evening routine was usually a pleasant dinner at his friend’s house and involved good food, good friends, good conversation. But there was nothing pleasant about this meal.
Instead of her signature spaghetti dinner, Elizabeth served a take-out meal from Shady Hill Diner: meatloaf, fried potatoes, and green beans. She picked at her food as the gravy congealed on the plate, her slender fingers gripping her fork tightly. Rex Tucker, Chief of Police in the town of Hurricane, stared at his wife as she ignored her food, his thin mouth set in a grim line.
Herne didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to know the source of the weight in the atmosphere. He saw the fear in Tucker’s eyes. And he knew there was only one reason Tucker would be afraid. There was a big crime to solve. Something different than the typical bar fight or domestic abuse. Something bigger. Something nastier.
A stab of emotion shot through Herne like a bullet in his belly. He swallowed hard, his thick neck tensing with the effort. The thump of his heart sounded loud in his ears, and he wondered if his friends could hear the way his body betrayed him.
Elizabeth’s eyes welled with tears, and they slipped down her cheek in a silent cascade. The quiver of her lips and her wrinkled forehead didn’t detract from her beauty. Instead, to Herne, she looked even more vulnerable and delicate. He clenched his muscles, resisting the urge to scoop his best friend’s wife into his arms. He just stared at the gray slab of meatloaf on his plate, his face a mask of indifference.
The squeak of Elizabeth’s chair mingled with the sound of her sobs as she pushed away from the table. In a moment she was gone, although Herne could hear her weeping in the kitchen.
Tucker sighed and looked at Herne. “Fuck,” he said. “I don’t know what to do.”
Silence settled between them. Herne stared at the burgundy liquid in his wine glass. The Merlot tasted smooth and rich, but he didn’t want to savor it. He wanted to gulp it. Fast.
He could see the stress in his friend’s angular face. In the way the vein throbbed on Tucker’s forehead. In the tension in Tucker’s lean, hunched shoulders. But he said nothing.
“I guess you don’t want to hear about it,” Tucker said. He rubbed his temples with his thin fingers.
Herne shrugged, trying to appear disinterested. His stomach rolled, rejecting the greasy meatloaf and cold gravy that he’d eaten only a few minutes before. And his gut clenched with fear. And turmoil.
And excitement.
“Elizabeth’s cousin, Charlotte, was reported missing this morning. She’s been gone twenty-four hours. And we haven’t been able to find her.”
“Is Elizabeth close to Charlotte?”
Tucker nodded. “Yeah. There was an age difference between them. Elizabeth is ten years older. But I think she
always felt like a mother figure to Charlotte. Kind of took her under her wing. Charlotte’s dad left when she was a kid, and her mom, Elizabeth’s aunt, was never home because she worked three shitty jobs to make ends meet. Elizabeth spent a lot of time with Charlotte when they were young. You know, teaching her how put on makeup and braiding her hair and shit like that. Whatever the fuck little girls do. They don’t spend much time together now since Charlotte is married and always busy at work. She’s an administrator for a construction company. But Elizabeth has always loved Charlotte like a sister.”
Nervous energy filled the air as Tucker stood. He paced the floor with his lean legs, his strides long across the small room. His shoulders hunched as he ran his fingers over his head, causing his short brown hair to stick up in crazy spikes. “Things like this aren’t supposed to happen in a small town like Hurricane. Hell, I can walk into Shady Hill Diner for lunch and see my kindergarten teacher, the girl I was with when I lost my virginity, and the last guy I gave a speeding ticket. How can a woman go missing in a place like this?”
Herne said nothing. He knew what Tucker wanted. Knew what Tucker wanted him to say. But he couldn’t bring himself to say it.
“I’m not going to ask for your help, Art, if that’s what you’re clenching your damn jaw about. Christ, the last time you helped me out you ended up buried in the bottle again. I love Elizabeth and would do anything to find her cousin, but I’m not going to destroy you for it. I know what happens to you when you work a case.”
Elizabeth walked into the room. Her over-sized sweater and cargo pants seemed to hang on her small frame, creating a childlike image. Her long brown hair, usually tied in a ponytail, hung around her face in neglected gossamer wisps. Herne’s heart ached at the despair in her eyes. She stood in front of him, her slender shoulders squared with determination. He knew what she planned to say.
“Rex won’t ask for your help, Art,” she said. “But I will. Would you help him find Charlotte?”
Herne looked at her, his gray eyes dark. Conflicting emotions tore through his body, almost shredding him down to his core. Dread. Obligation. Anticipation. Panic. Love.
When he finally spoke, he could hear the tightness in his words. “I'm not sure I'm the man for this job,” Herne said.
“Did you ever find a missing person when you were a cop?” Elizabeth’s voice was soft. Pleading.
Herne thought about the missing persons he had found during his time as a detective with the Philadelphia Police Department. A child kidnapped by a pedophile. A teenage girl abducted on the way to school. A young mother and her son, carjacked in a mall parking lot. He'd lost himself in each case. Buried himself in the darkness of his soul to track down the ones who had disappeared. And every time, he was too late. He found only corpses.
“Are you certain you want me to do this, Elizabeth?” Deep and somber, his eyes bored into hers as if searching for the answer in her soul. “I’ll do it my way, whether you like it or not. Whether Rex likes it or not. And I’ll keep going until the job is done. I’ll hunt for her until I find her, no matter what I have to sacrifice. Is that what you want, Elizabeth? Is that what you want me to do?”
He saw the sobriety in her gaze. The understanding of what this would cost him, and what it might cost her. She nodded. “Yes, Art. That’s what I want. Go find her.”
CHAPTER 3
NOVEMBER 4 - SUNDAY MORNING
Charlotte lived in a brick house on the outskirts of Hurricane. Tall oak trees lined the street. A few of her neighbors kept horses or chickens in their large yards. Herne’s black boots thumped against the wooden porch steps as he strode to the front door of her home.
To Herne, the man who answered the door was average. Average height. Average weight. Not extremely handsome, nor piteously ugly. His khaki pants and white golf shirt would have faded in a crowd. Even his brown hair and brown eyes seemed ideally suited for his unremarkable face.
Herne knew his own bald head, crooked nose, and scarred face made him anything but nondescript. Inwardly, he shrugged. For him, it was normal to be a beast among the ordinary.
“You must be Artemis Herne,” the man said. He spoke carefully, as if trained to do so, and for a moment Herne saw a flicker of the man as a young boy. Probably thin. An average and unassuming student. Unexceptional in every way, except perhaps for a stutter that wasn’t cured until his teenage years. “Chief Tucker said you would be visiting. I’m Thad Allen. Charlotte’s husband.”
Allen’s handshake felt dank and limp beneath Herne’s thick fingers. The man led him through the foyer and into the living room, gesturing toward a comfortable sofa covered in soft throw pillows. Herne felt his weight—a few pounds heavier than usual because of his steady diet of pizza and burgers—sink into the cushions.
“Can I offer you a drink?” Allen asked.
Herne hesitated. He remembered how quickly he had fallen back into his old habits during his last case. He knew how easy it would be to slip into the hole of booze and drugs and cigarettes. He shook his head, resolute that this time would be different. And part of him almost believed it.
“How long have you and Charlotte been married?” Herne asked.
Allen glanced at the wedding picture hanging above a brick fireplace. Charlotte, slender and young, wore a princess gown of lace and satin. Her husband stood next to her in a black tuxedo.
“Eight years,” Allen said. “We married when we were in college.”
“How’s your marriage? Is it stable?”
Allen arched an eyebrow, an expression that made him look, for the first time, distinctive. “That’s a personal question, isn’t it?”
Herne shrugged his broad shoulders and leaned forward, his gray eyes glinting with intensity. “Your wife is missing. That makes you the number one suspect in my book.”
Anger sparked in Allen’s eyes, then faded as quickly as it flashed. He bowed his head. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
“A criminal investigation is an invasion,” Herne growled. “An invasion of privacy. An invasion of your life. If you hide something from me now and I uncover it later, you will regret it.”
Allen straightened his back and met Herne’s gaze. “I love my wife more than anything, and I assume she loves me in the same way. We can never know what another person truly feels, I suppose, but I know how I feel about her. Charlotte is my life, and I’d die without her.” He paused as if tasting his words, hesitating to utter them. Then they came out in a burst. “I’ve read about you in the newspaper. I’ve heard you’re a badass guy. So maybe a man like you can’t understand what it’s like to love a woman so intensely that you’d die for her.”
A man like you. Herne thought about his wife, Maggie, and the intensity of their marriage. He thought about her warmth and compassion and softness. He once had been like Allen. His love for his wife had been so deep and rich and heavy that it had almost consumed him. And after Maggie died, he thought he’d never love again. But time had worked on his memories like a drip of water that slowly eats away a stone. The rock remained, but it had changed. The memory of their love was no longer sharp and clear. It had become a faded blur of nostalgia.
But her screams still resonated in his head with sharp clarity, stabbing his gut with every memory. She’d burned alive in a fire set by someone seeking revenge on him.
His fault.
Herne shook his head to clear his mind and returned his attention to Allen. “Is Charlotte a creature of habit?”
“Yes,” Allen said. “She works during the week for Hayes Construction. Tuesday nights she volunteers with the local homeless shelter. Every Friday after work she shops at Windy Grove Grocery. Sunday mornings she goes to church. She follows that routine with very few exceptions. She is dependable.” His fists curled into tight balls on his lap, his knuckles white from the pressure. “You have to find her,” he said.
Ignoring the emotion that vibrated in Allen’s voice and the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes, Herne said, �
�What about friends? Does she socialize often?”
Allen swallowed hard and shook his head. “Not really. Charlotte spends most of her time at work. She is very dedicated to her job, even though she isn’t much more than a glorified secretary. She has one girlfriend—a woman named Faith who she’s known since grade school. We have a few couples we see on occasion, but no one exceptionally close. She hasn’t even paid attention to her family lately. I know she loves her cousin, Chief Tucker’s wife, but Charlotte just hasn’t had time to cultivate those relationships.”
Herne stood. “I’d like to look at some of her things. Her closet. Her clothing. Her home office, if she has one.”
“Damn,” Allen said with a frown. “This is invasive.”
Herne clenched his jaw, tired of the man’s resistance. “If you want me to find your wife, I need to know who she is.” In fact, thought Herne, I need to know her better than you do.
Allen led Herne down a short hallway to a bedroom. “This is our room.” He gestured. “We don’t have a home office. Feel free to look at anything you want. I have nothing to hide.” He left Herne alone, his footsteps plodding on the carpeted floor.
The small bedroom held only a bed, two dressers, and a nightstand. One of the dressers held a jewelry box, a tray of nail polish, and a small bottle of perfume. Herne went to it and opened the bottom drawers, examining the clothing. Charlotte’s wardrobe consisted mostly of blue jeans, tee-shirts, and khaki pants. A practical woman, Herne thought. Her lingerie drawer contained plain cotton underwear and utilitarian bras. Herne glimpsed lace in the back of the drawer, and he reached for it with his hand. As his fingers curled around the soft fabric, he felt something hard.
Predictable, he thought. So often women kept their most personal items buried with their panties and bras, as if the intimate nature of their undergarments created a shield of privacy. It was something every burglar and every cop knew. Women’s secrets could always be found in the bedroom.
