Jackson grabbed the knife wielding arm of the off balance assailant. He pulled the man towards him, disorienting the dark skinned stranger. The man was off balance now, and fell towards Jackson.
Almost automatically, the former SEAL's finger's curled, his hand forming a flat surface which struck at the soft cartilage of the intruder's nose quickly and with lethal accuracy. The strength of Jackson's blow drove shards of bone and cartilage into his brain, quickly ending the man's life.
Jackson was strangely calm. He stepped over the now still body of his assailant in search of his phone. He needed to call the police.
The prepaid cellular telephone sat on Jackson's bedside table where he had left it the day before. He made for the device, but when he was halfway to the bedside table, he stopped.
Things kept getting stranger with every passing moment.
A Beretta 9mm handgun was sitting on the edge of his unmade bed. Next to the black firearm sat a note written on a yellow legal pad that Jackson normally kept in his kitchen. Confused, Jackson picked up the yellow pad of paper and began to read.
As his eyes scanned the pages of the yellow legal pad, Jackson's heart rate increased for the first time, his calloused and bloody hands beginning to sweat as he read the lines of the page. The note read:
Leigh and Clementine,
I'm sorry. Life has become burdensome in these difficult times and I can no longer continue. It is my own selfishness and shame that compelled me to take you with me. I hope that you will forgive me in this life or the next.
Love, Jackson
Jackson held the yellow paper in his trembling hands, confused. Despite waking up with no memory of the night before, Jackson knew that he hadn't written the note.
The handwriting was close to Jackson's own, but it was not an exact match. And the signature was off.
Jackson glanced at the dead man still lying on the floor, wondering how he was involved.
Jackson picked up his cell phone, dialing a number that he hadn't called in months. The hollow sound of the ringer echoed in Jackson's ears five times before the call went to voice mail.
Even on voicemail, hearing his ex-wife's voice caused a painful longing in Jackson's lonely heart as he began to worry in earnest.
He had to get to Leigh and Clementine's apartment.
Jackson searched the pin striped suit of the dead intruder. As he searched the dead man, he found a Glock 17 pistol with a silencer and the Ka-Bar knife that the assailant had attempted to use on Jackson. Along with the weapons, Jackson found close to $500 in cash, but no wallet or identification.
Jackson tucked the weapons and cash in the pockets of his leather motorcycle jacket as he checked one last pocket of the man's tailor made suit. Inside the jacket pocket of the dark skinned intruder's suit, Jackson found his paycheck.
Jackson had no idea how this man had gotten his paycheck, but looking at the check made Jackson's blood as cold as ice as his mind began to race.
The address on the check was not 714 Halsey Drive, where Jackson lived. Rather, the address printed in fading black ink on the pay check was Jackson's ex-wife's address; 2100 Marywood Circle, Apartment 113.
Jackson shivered. Months ago, he had asked human resources to send every other paycheck to his ex-wife in the form of child support for Clementine. This must have been one of those weeks.
He stared at the check momentarily, but his rumination was interrupted by soft voices coming from the front of his home.
"Shit." He said as he turned towards the sliding glass door of his bedroom.
Whether the voices belonged to law enforcement or associates of the man who had just tried to kill him, Jackson wasn't sure. But he wasn't sticking around to find out.
He had to get to Leigh's apartment.
Chapter 11:
8:30 AM- Saturday, September 9th
Sumner, VA
Officer James "Jimmy" Howe hated these calls.
It seemed that invariably, he would knock on the door to someone's home and the "missing person" would answer. For that reason, the department had a rule that they wouldn't normally conduct a search for a missing person until at least twenty-four hours had elapsed.
On slow days, however, the Chief was a strong advocate of best serving the public's interest.
Unfortunately for the men under his command, in Sumner, there seemed to be a lot of slow days. The men and women of the department had become exhausted of responding to every single call, no matter how seemingly innocuous.
Apparently, the woman who had called in regarding this "missing" resident, one Leigh Adams, formerly Leigh Pike, had convinced the dispatcher that something was seriously amiss.
So, based on the report of a Ms. Julie Page of West Sumner, Jimmy had been dispatched to her residence.
Jimmy cursed the slow morning under his breath as the police cruiser approached the apartment complex that sat at 2100 Marywood Circle.
He exhaled loudly as he found himself hoping for a legitimate call. In his experience, these "check in" visits were a waste of time.
Officer Howe drove his blue and white police cruiser down the secluded access road to the beige colored apartment complex, his radio turned up to maximum volume as he hoped for a new set of orders or an emergency call to a higher profile case.
It didn't come.
He pulled his cruiser up to the gate and pressed the call button. The heavy wrought iron gate swung open as he keyed the handheld radio transmitter on his encrypted law enforcement radio.
"Unit 420 reporting arrival at 2100 Marywood Circle," he said simply as he drove his car towards Building 1.
He pulled his police cruiser into the first available spot and shut the vehicle down. He unfastened his seatbelt and took a long drink from his coffee thermos before stepping from the police interceptor.
How shrugged his shoulders to ease the tension of the drive as he stepped from the vehicle.
Officer Howe was an imposing figure. Though soft through the middle, Howe stood at over six foot four inches, and weighed in at upwards of two hundred and seventy five pounds. His skin was prematurely wrinkled from the elements and the stress of twenty years in law enforcement, but his salt and pepper hair was thick and coarse.
Jimmy took a breath before stepping heavily up the pristinely manicured walkway that led to Building 1 and through the breezeway that led to the front door of Leigh Adams' apartment.
The door to the apartment was a simple aluminum type door with a single deadbolt. Jimmy tried the handle. It seemed to be locked securely. There were no signs that anything was amiss from the outside of the dark brown door.
He balled up his heavy fist and rapped loudly on the door.
He waited, but there was no response.
He balled up his fist more tightly. He pounded on the door now. "Ms. Adams," he said loudly his voice booming through the breezeway of the apartment complex; "this is the Sumner Police Department."
There continued to be no answer at the door.
As Jimmy stood pondering his next move, a door opened behind him. A small, frail old woman stood with her door barely open was peering at Jimmy's back. "Officer," said the weak voice, "Can I help you?"
Jimmy turned and faced the elderly woman whose curly white hair only came to the center of Officer Howe's chest. "I'm looking for Ms. Adams. Have you seen her?"
"Not since yesterday," replied the elderly woman, her eyes closed in deep thought. "She got home around the normal time and I haven't seen her since."
Jimmy sighed. Leigh Adams was probably just taking a personal day.
Jimmy's reply was curt but gracious. "Thank you, ma'am" he said simply.
The elderly neighbor's stature and advanced years belied her mental sharpness. "Officer, I'm somewhat concerned that Leigh hasn't answered the door. Lord knows you were bellowing loud enough to wake the dead."
Jimmy shook his head. "Are you saying that her vehicle is still here?"
"Well of course," replied the elderly neighb
or, pointing to the parking lot. "It's the minivan there."
Jimmy was beginning to wonder whether any of this constituted probable cause when the feisty little woman pulled a key from a chain which was hanging from a peg board to the side of her front door. She bustled through the door and pushed the almost three hundred pound officer out of the way.
The small metal key jangled on the elderly woman's long keychain as she pushed it into the lock of the simple aluminum door. The door opened, and the white haired lady pushed her way into the apartment, knocking loudly as she called Leigh's name.
Seconds later, Jimmy heard a high pitched shriek erupt from the apartment.
If his "bellowing" hadn't woken the dead, the tiny neighbor's blood curdling scream would have.
Chapter 12:
8:40 AM- Saturday, September 9th
Sumner, VA
Jackson's steps fell on his weed-choked and overgrown back lawn as he headed towards the woods behind his home. It was almost ten miles to Leigh's apartment, and without his Harley, Jackson would have to hoof it.
In the SEALs, Jackson had consistently run six minute miles. Unfortunately, it had been a few years since the last time Jackson had run. It took him almost an hour and a half to cover the ten miles to Leigh's apartment.
Jackson frowned and glanced at his watch as he sprinted the last half mile to Leigh's apartment complex. He couldn't believe it had taken him an hour and a half to cover ten miles. He shook his head as he sucked air painfully into his lungs, his heavy legs carrying him up the curving access road that led to the wrought iron fence marking the perimeter of his ex wife's apartment complex.
If the situation hadn't been so deadly serious, Jackson would have had to laugh at himself for sprinting through the town in jeans, a leather jacket and steel toed boots. But there would be no laughter today.
With his objective in sight, Jackson sprinted around the final wooded bend that concealed the simple apartment complex from Sumner's busy main road.
His heart sank and his hands began to shake as he caught his first glimpse of the building. No less than three fire trucks and four police cruisers sat before the non-descript beige buildings that constituted the apartment complex, clear evidence to Jackson that things were vastly out of whack in the normally serene community.
Jackson slowed to a trot and then to a walk as he approached the apartment complex. He looked down at the asphalt below as he zipped up his leather jacket in an effort to cover his soaking wet white t-shirt. He forced himself to walk at a normal pace down the unusually busy road. As opposed to most Saturdays, this morning the asphalt of the access road was bustling with activity.
Jackson sought out the closest emergency vehicle. There was a large red ladder truck approximately fifty yards from Jackson, and he stepped towards the vehicle, his eyes frantically seeking the driver. The burly firefighter was leaning against the hood of the vehicle smoking a cigarette, a sad look plastered on his face.
"Excuse me, sir," said Jackson, still somewhat breathless from the run as he approached the young firefighter. "What happened here?"
The firefighter glanced at the sweaty man standing in the road, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. "There has been a double murder;" he replied "A woman and her daughter were shot last night in their apartment."
The firefighter's words cut through the fog of Jackson's still concussed mind. He could feel his heart simultaneously rise into his throat and sink four feet towards the asphalt below.
"Thank you" was all that he was able to mutter before he walked past the rest of the emergency vehicles and further down the curving road that stretched ahead of him.
His steps were unsteady as he approached the beige and brown buildings that constituted the simple apartment complex. A woman and her daughter had been murdered, Jackson repeated in his head.
The note.
Jackson's hands were shaking uncontrollably now and his steps were progressively more staggered. A salty tear rolled down his bearded cheek and to the corner of his mouth. He stared at the apartment building. The swinging wrought iron gate of the complex sat open. Inside the complex, adjacent to the first building, sat a coroner's truck.
Jackson's mind was working in overdrive now and clear thinking eluded him as his adrenaline surged, tears streaming liberally down his face now. His SEAL training was not helping in the least with controlling his fear. Jackson's footsteps slowed as he continued to stare at the apartment complex.
A police line stretched across the entryway to his ex-wife's building. The yellow tape told the rest of the tragic story. Jackson's entire body was shaking, his legs quivering with fatigue as he continued to walk past the apartment complex.
Though he was struggling to understand what was happening, Jackson knew one thing. He could not stick around. As tears streamed down his bearded face, Jackson stepped away from the beehive of activity.
He walked away from the scene of Leigh and Clementine's murder without aim or purpose. His head spun as he wept openly and contemplated the tragedy of losing the only family he had ever loved.
The note he had found on the edge of his bed now made perfect and sinister sense to Jackson, despite his rage and pain.
Jackson knew two things for certain. The first: he was being framed for the murder of his ex-wife and daughter. The second: He was not supposed to be alive.
Jackson couldn't go home. The police would surely find the murdered stranger in his bedroom. Coupled with the forged note that was still lying on his bed, there was no doubt in Jackson’s mind that he was a wanted man.
His steps fell on the concrete of the sidewalk as Jackson's sad and ambling gait carried him from the tragic bustle of the apartment complex.
Jackson’s mind alternated between the extremes of love and hate as he meandered down the crowded street, his eyes downcast now as he wept openly and stifled sobs. Love compelled the tears that blurred his eyes, while hate fueled the rage that clouded his judgment.
Jackson knew that he needed a plan.
First, he had to get off of the road.
Luckily he knew a place.
The Sea Breeze Motel was located about a mile from Leigh's apartment complex.
Jackson didn't have to think long before he settled on stopping at the aging motel. The Sea Breeze could give Jackson the shelter he needed while he sought his memory for answers.
The pieces of the puzzle just would not come together in Jackson's mind. The man who had been in his house was a stranger to Jackson but clearly had something to do with the murders of his wife and daughter.
Why anyone would want to hurt Leigh and Clementine, though, was beyond Jackson's comprehension. He wiped the tears from his eyes and clenched his fists as he walked towards the Sea Breeze Motel, his stride now purposeful as his eyes narrowed.
If he could figure out why he was being framed for murder, he would be able to find the parties responsible.
Chapter 13:
10:15 AM- Saturday, September 9th
Arlington, VA
The telephone vibrated insistently in Steve Yaeger's pocket as he stepped from the right seat of his golf cart. He held up a single index finger to the other man in his cart as he stepped away.
Only a handful of people in the world had this number, and none of them would call it lightly.
"Hello?" He said hesitantly into the mouthpiece of the heavily encrypted telephone, stepping away from the tee box of the 9th hole as the rest of his foursome awaited his shot.
The voice that responded to Steve Yaeger's stilted hello did not begin with a standard greeting, but rather an insistent request. "Where do we stand on our project?" The deep voice began, its hollow baritone masking the anxiety and stress of the speaker.
The voice was well known to Yaeger. He peered behind him as he stepped down the cart path away from the 9th tee box. "I have received no further word, sir." Yaeger could feel his hands begin to tremble and sweat begin to pool inside of the supple white golf glove that he wore on his left h
and.
The baritone didn't allow Steve Yaeger the opportunity to provide another excuse. "I have, " said the caller with a sinister tone. "Tell me, Steven what do I pay you for?"
Steve Yaeger could feel the bile rising in his throat as he attempted to mumble an answer. Harvard could not have prepared him for this line of questioning. Nothing could have prepared him for this conversation. It carried undertones that few understood.
Before Yaeger could form a response, the voice continued. "I pay you so that I don't have to worry, Steven. I pay you to oversee my business." There was silence at the end of the line following this statement as the caller awaited the balding CFOs response.
"But, sir. These types of situations cannot be anticipated," stammered the confounded CFO. "There's no way to anticipate these setbacks."
The deep and raspy voice interrupted. "Anticipate, perhaps not" stated the deep voice, his anger becoming very apparent. "But there is a fix for any problem under the sun, Mr. Yaeger. Any problem, including staff members who do not perform up to the standards expected of them."
"I understand, sir" began the stocky bald headed man, only to be interrupted by a sudden click and deafening silence at the other end of the line. The man had hung up.
Yaeger shook his head. He truly did understand.
Steve Yaeger tucked the folding plastic cell phone into the pocket of his khaki pants and hung his head as he stepped to the small golf cart that housed his expensive Taylor Made golf clubs and bag.
He picked up a nine iron and walked to the tee. The men in his foursome had been waiting.
"I thought we said no cell phones?" Taunted one of the men, as Yaeger walked towards the tee box.
"I know, I'm sorry about that. I'll buy the next round." Yaeger forced a smile.
A soft wind blew from the south, and the morning sun glinted off of the water hazard between the tee box and the green. It was a beautiful morning for golf, and until a few moments ago, Steve Yaeger had been enjoying the fresh air and sunshine.
Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series) Page 5