Grave Mistakes_A Deadly Vigilante Crime Thriller

by Brian Spangler

  GRAVE MISTAKES

  Affair with Murder Series

  Book Three

  Brian Spangler

  TITLES IN THE SERIES

  Killing Katie

  Painful Truths

  Grave Mistakes

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 Brian Spangler

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  ISBN: 9781981079766

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  Thank You

  Subscribe to my Newsletter

  Also By

  About The Author

  BONUS - In Sickness and In Murder

  DEDICATION

  To my friends and family for their love, support and patience.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  While working on this new series, I was aided by several individuals to whom I wish to offer my immense gratitude and appreciation. Thank you for reading early drafts of book one, and for offering critiques and encouragement. As always, your feedback has helped to shape the story.

  To Monica Spangler, Chris Cornely Razzi, Ann Spangler and Linda Eighmy and so many others for providing invaluable feedback, and helping me recognize the potential of this book.

  GRAVE MISTAKES

  ONE

  HATE IS AS POWERFUL AS LOVE. My mother told me that once, though at the time, I didn’t understand what she meant by the saying. Hate can keep you going for twice as long. She’d said that too, and after twenty years in prison, I’d come to know what hate was. Locked away from my family, from my life, when I had nothing else to hold on to, hate became my friend, my lover, my soulmate. And when loneliness and despair pushed hard enough—pushed me to the point of tightening a rolled bed sheet around my neck—it was hate that saved me.

  My mother never told me what it was she hated, what made her a serial killer and drove her murderous compulsions. I’d often thought her murders were random or happenstance: spurred on by a sound or smell the way old songs on the radio can stir a nostalgic memory. But, I suppose, it didn’t matter. She’d killed for her own reasons, just as I had killed for mine.

  Before prison, I’d had the perfect life. I’d had that rarely finished puzzle with all the jigsaw pieces in the right place. A beautiful life. And now the pieces were ragged and torn or missing. My reason? My need to murder? It started somewhere deep and primal. Fear. I murdered a man to save my children, to save my husband, to save everything. That’s the lie I’d told myself. Call it karma, or just bad luck, but when I killed Detective Garret Williams, I lost everything anyway.

  I did this. And I’ve nobody to hate but myself. Like I said, it’s the hate that has kept me going. And it’s the hate that would make things right again.

  Tick-Tick-Tick.

  There are few sounds in the world that have more meaning to me than the ticking of a clock. It’s the sound of time passing by. Gone. Never to be recovered. On my prison block—my home these last two decades—there’s an ancient looking wall clock whose mere existence seems as endless and pointless as my own. Surrounded by the same dull, colorless walls, and perched high above the guards room, the clock was just another dim face staring down on my block. But for me, it was more. It was a sad reminder of what I’d lost.

  Soon after I’d arrived at Holmesburg Prison, a guard mentioned the clock and that it was as old as the bricks it hung from. I swear I hadn’t heard the ticking before the guard pointed it out. My cellmate laughed and spat as the guard talked about the clock. An overweight woman, she was convicted of first-degree murder. She’d plunged the claw end of a hammer into the top of her husband’s skull. She’d said it was to shut up his snoring, but he’d made a habit of beating on her and I suspected that was what really motivated the killing. When the guard was out of sight, she’d said he told the same story to all the fish—slammer slang for new inmates. But he only told them if they were first-timers, if they were bumpkins like me.

  That first night on the inside was the longest. I didn’t sleep. And it wasn’t my cellmate’s snoring that kept me awake, though the irony of it didn’t escape me. I didn’t want to sleep. Instead, I listened to the other inmates, heard the whimpers, the muffled shouts, the screams and the occasional calling out to the guards that went unanswered. But mostly, I listened to the clock. I tasted hate that night. Just a touch of it—it was the first of many small resentments to come in my years. If the guard had said nothing, I might not have heard a fucking thing.

  Tick-Tick-Tick.

  Days turned into months which bled into years. Outside, time marched on. Life continued without me. The clock remained ageless, my constant reminder. There were some days, all I could bring myself to do was hold up my cell wall in a helpless lean, stare at its round face, and watch time disappear. One second at a time. And then a minute . . . then five. I died a little as the dingy hands struck the hours like a hammer—each one driving a nail into my heart. Before I knew it, my children had grown up, and my time inside was ending.

  “Shower time, Ms. Harris,” I heard my name called out. Before prison, I was Mrs. Amy Sholes. However, during my first month inside, my husband, my now ex-husband, pushed for a quick divorce and I was once again Ms. Amy Harris. I squeezed my eyes tight as the guard repeated herself, repeated my name. Although it’d been years, it still hurt. In my heart, I would always be Mrs. Amy Sholes and married to Steve Sholes. “Or are you just gonna sit in your stink all day?”

  “I’m moving,” I told the guard, preferring to keep my voice soft and my head down as she rapped the wall with the flat of her hand. “On my way.”

  I eased out of my cell and quickly scanned my block for any trouble. It was a habit I’d formed soon after I arrived. Safe—our cell block was humming a familiar tune—card games and distant singing, shuffling feet, and soft, intimate chatter. I expected trouble and let out a shaky breath. The guard motioned for me to move, her face pinching with a frown. Across from me, I saw gray faces peering from behind metal bars, some frozen like statues and some offering a consenting nod.

  The guard waved impatiently. I followed her, passing a dimly lit cell, the bed covers pulled over, the girls beneath enjoying a sleep-over. The guard took notice, but then glimpsed the
clock and pushed me along. Inmates have nothing but time. Guards were prisoners of time, bowing to their timecards, clocking in and out with each shift, slaves to an hourly wage and counting the months and years until their pensions and retirement.

  Other inmates crossed in front of us, trading glances like passing notes in class, staying tightlipped around the guard. I saw the regulars were already out their cells for a stretch, doing their thing, hiding in the corners, trying desperately to remain unnoticed, unseen. There were the vultures and the thieves too, the ones that came in the night to steal and feed like jackals—they were of little threat. A few jesters were prancing around also—strutting center-court and doing everything they could to get noticed. I was safe for now, but needed to avoid the inmates who were paid to make trouble—the ones who side-eyed the world, inserting themselves where they didn’t belong. I was certain they’d be around. I knew most of them and they knew me.

  “Come on Harris. It’s your last day!” the guard exclaimed, lifting her voice to sound friendly and encouraging. Her words gave me a rise, nudging me along, and brought an unfamiliar joy. I’d buried any kind of hope soon after arriving. There was no place for it in prison. In a few hours, I’d be reunited with my family, sitting with them, talking and having a meal together. Though I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, I’d dreamt about the moment a lot. I only needed to survive the day and get my release. I nodded appreciatively to the guard and eased past her, leaning away to avoid brushing against her large chest. She inched forward, walking closely behind, waiting for me to respond. “Thought you’d be in a rush to get a move on, to get this day done and over with.”

  Tick-Tick-Tick.

  “Sure, I’m excited,” I told her, sounding reserved, knowing what was coming for me. I mean, who wouldn’t be excited to be released and see their family? But the shower room was the last place I wanted to be this morning. The wall clock ticked and eyed me as the seconds passed and my feet grew heavy when we neared the end of the cell block. The damp smell of the showers came to my nose and my heart thumped nervously. There wasn’t an inmate on my block who didn’t know who I was and that today was my release day. They also knew there was an old score in play and that probably, I might never make it out of the prison. Not of my power, anyway. I’d have to fight if I wanted to see my family again, and I was certain the inmate itching to steal my freedom was waiting for me.

  Word of a hit had made it around the block, I’d heard it from a trusted friend. Three knee deep was the order, which is more slammer slang, meaning I’d be stabbed a few times, but my life spared. I didn’t find the prospects of any stabbing helpful, and any kind of assault would surely end with my remaining incarcerated—whether that meant healing in the infirmary, or stuck in a holding cell with new charges hanging over my head. Or, worst case, I’d be laid out on a metal table in the prison morgue. It meant that I wouldn’t be getting out of here any time soon. I shuffled along, my body tensing and feeling rigid, reminding me of what it was like during my first days in prison. It was the only other time I’d ever felt so afraid. I was terrified.

  Mostly, prison is a quiet life—our days are fixed to a schedule, a regimen, planned to the minute—we live being told when to wake up and when to eat, when to shit and even when to sleep. The early months were a tough change, getting used to a cadence I had no control over. But it wasn’t long before I’d sought comfort in the signals—a guard’s call, the inmates lining up, the wall clock’s tick and spying the hour, our bodies telling us it was time for a move to the big yard or chow time—slammer slang for a meal. Being on the inside got easier after that, like going with the grain instead of trying to go against it.

  But there was friction hidden in the tedium of prison life. It might be a cross word or maybe a hateful glance, or even a shitty work assignment, but those little rubs had a way of chafing the days. And after a while, the mounting tensions were overbearing, heating like a simmering teakettle coming to a boil. And it wouldn’t take much to trigger a spill.

  Some inmates were more sensitive to it than others—the pent-up pressures sending them into a kind of random madness. To others, the madness was the norm, like breathing in a toxic poison—the initial reactions unnoticeable. Those were the signs we’d look for, what we watched for, and what we prepared for.

  During my time, I’d seen a lot of blow-ups. Sometimes the fights were small, other times not. But in nearly all of them we’d see weapons and blood (or we’d want to see blood). The hacks, the guards, sounded alarms and shouted for us to drop to the floor or to get in our cells. With the cheering and jeering and the screams, the noise on our block would become deafening. I’d watch the cells across from mine, watch the other inmates pacing like wolves as the guards pummeled and subdued and broke bones. I’d like to say I was afraid, but I wasn’t. Like others, I’d thrive on the excitement, sucking it in like a drowning man gasping for air. I needed a break from the monotony too. I needed the relief.

  Blowups were the prison’s relief valve. It was cyclical. It was how we lived, our internal clock, and we were well overdue for something to happen. There were no great secrets in prison. You could see what was coming, it was written on the faces of the inmates and guards, you only had to know what to look for. Today, I saw something coming. We all did. I never thought I’d be the main attraction.

  Tick-Tick-Tick.

  “Come on now,” the guard said, glancing at my feet. “You’re dragging this out and I ain’t got all day.”

  “Any chance you’d let me take a pass on the shower?” I asked. But I already knew the answer. “Just need to freshen up is all.”

  The guard slowed, heaving in a gulp of air and sticking out her chest. She tapped at her wrist, tapped on a watch that wasn’t there and answered, “Schedule Harris. Got us a schedule to keep. Get moving.”

  I could feel the pot boiling. And I was the steam.

  TWO

  SHOWER NOISES CAME TO ME—the kind overlook and ignore, but today I listened. My flip-flops squelched on the wet concrete, and a nudge came from behind, the guard’s warm hand pressing against my back, driving me to move a little faster. If only she knew. Or maybe she did. Never trust a guard. The sound of rain patters came next, the shower’s spray pissing onto the shoulders of the inmates I was supposed to have been with. I didn’t know who would be in the group but expected Roxanne Jones to be among them. It was Roxanne who I needed to avoid. She’d come at me today, completing a promise that was more than a decade old. She ran much of our block—a monster of a woman, who was as smart as she was big. I imagined she might have been a good-hearted person if her circumstance had been different, but if you want to survive prison, primal is what matters—animal instincts—that is, your true self. Primal or not, Roxanne was sharp, and that made her dangerous. It made her lethal. I found that out after she’d transferred to our prison and nearly killed me. I never knew what it was exactly I’d done to tick her off, but I spent the next two weeks in the infirmary. Unfortunately for me, our first scrap wasn’t our last. She’d sworn to finish what she started. And now, if she got her way, she’d fulfill her promise and steal my freedom.

  “Ya see. Nothing to it,” the guard said, nudging me again. Steam rolled from the shower room, falling over the lip of the entrance and circling my feet. Stepping into the warm moist air gave me a sudden chill. I shuddered, but the change in temperature wasn’t the only reason. “Not sure why you were late, but you’ll have to rush to catch up if you’re gonna make your last work detail.”

  “I’ll manage,” I told her, slipping past some inmates. The prison shower was a big room at the center of an even larger room. At times, it felt like I was back in my high school’s gym locker room—except, back then, I’d never had to fend for my life. And just like high school, there was no privacy in the prison showers. I eased through a wall of thick steam, carefully stepping onto the tiles and keeping my flip-flops on. The ghostly images of naked bodies slipped in and out of focus, some side-eyeing me, quickly re
cognizing who I was and then moving to avoid any chance of cross-fire—in prison, even accidental involvement in an altercation could be enough to land you in the hole for a few days.

  The tiled walls sprouted shower heads that drooped like flower blossoms, the iron mottled with rust. A hook for our towels was there too. And beneath each of them was a shower knob in the shape of a bloated starfish. I’d seen a woman die in the showers once, the back of her head striking a starfish leg, killing her almost instantly. I gave the starfish some consideration. Roxanne was big, powerful, and could easily hang me like a winter coat. I decided if she came at me, I’d take the fight to the center of the room. Take it over the big drainage grate and avoid the walls.

  I dropped my towel to my side, having lost my shyness years ago, and sought out an open space. I listened too, focusing my instincts like a radar and tried to pick up on anything different. More women saw me approach and disappeared into the heavy mist, shying away as if I were some kind of repellent. That was okay. I’d need some space if an attack were coming.

  A screech rang out, causing me to jump. I spun around to face the center of the room. My hands trembling as I made out the shape of bodies moving, their shadowy outlines cutting through the steam. Instinctively, I curled the end of my towel around my fist and clutched the other end until the cloth was strung taut like piano wire. A towel was a piss-poor prison weapon, but standing naked and blind, it was all I had. And if by chance I somehow got the upper hand on Roxanne, then maybe I’d wrap the towel around her pink, fat neck, placing a choke hold strong enough to drop her.

  Her crime? Drugs, same as many on the inside. Except, in her case, she and her boyfriend blew up half a city block when their methamphetamine lab exploded. Lucky for them, they weren’t home, but five of their neighbors were—all of them killed in the blast. A six-year-old girl was amongst the dead, her parents on the news, vowing for revenge—or so I’d been told. Roxanne laughed about it too. I’d seen her rotten, gapped tooth smile, as she bragged. It made me sick. If we were on the outside, I’d seek out the little girl’s parents and offer my services for free, ridding the world of the pestilent waste of life. After all, the world wouldn’t miss her.