by Erik Carter
Talkin' Jive
Erik Carter
Copyright © 2019 by Erik Carter
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN: 9781095409046
Contents
Oak Ridge, Tennessee
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
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
SPECIAL OFFER
Thank You
Readers Club
Acknowledgments
Also by Erik Carter
Oak Ridge, Tennessee
The 1970s
Chapter One
Asa Hendrix leaned into the man’s ear and whispered, “Kill him now.”
The words felt like silk as they left his lips. Silky and divine. They were dark words, certainly, so the tone, intonation, and rhythm needed to be perfect. That’s why he’d served them up so delectably. Like an aged wine in exquisite crystal. Like a fine cut of steak, perfectly seasoned. Like a single chocolate from a high-end chocolatier, presented on a small, porcelain platter—lightly dusted with cocoa powder, perfectly formed, shined to a slight veneer, and encasing a truffle center that’s airy, fluffy, buttery. Silky.
Asa had made a life out of words. Not a career. A life. He’d had too many setbacks and pitfalls to ever have something that could be labeled a true “career.” Too many new beginnings, too many fresh starts. But he was a survivor, and through it all, words were what kept him alive. His ability to bend them to his will, to use that power to bend other people to his will.
The current receptor of his words was one Cody Ellis. A local. Age twenty-four, making him exactly twenty years younger than Asa. Cody was short and slight yet muscular, lean, zero fat. The kind of kid who’s lifted weights for years and eats thousands of calories a day but just can’t put on size, finally learning to accept the fact that he’s going to be skinny forever. Asa had noted two male body types in this, his native land—scrawny and bulbous.
But there was something different about Cody’s scrawniness. In his face. He didn’t have the same lean, hollow cheeks and sunken eyes of so many of the locals. His face was fuller and softer. Big eyes with long lashes. Small lips. His was a face that, upon first look, conveyed a bit of innocence. But Asa had seen through it. There was something darker deep down in those eyes. Something very dark indeed. There was a killer in there. Asa just needed to bring him out.
Cody was sweaty, and his skin was even a bit paler than normal as he looked down the barrel of his pistol at the other man, gagged and tied to a chair. The man wore a dark, SWAT-style uniform, and he was sweating even more than Cody. He shouted through his gag. Pleading. Wide, panicked eyes.
They were in the small barn on the backside of the property. Inside were the groundskeepers’ effects—lawnmowers, wheelbarrows, grass seed, rakes—which gave a smell both earthy and mechanical to the cold, dusty air. Asa would normally take matters like this downstairs into the barn’s basement, but there was no need. No one was in the nearby cabin that evening. He, Cody, and the stranger were the only people for at least a mile.
Asa looked at the gun in Cody’s hand. It remained pointed at the stranger. But it hadn’t yet spit out a bullet. It just sat there, shaking slightly.
Asa was going to need to use a few more magic words. This part of his plan couldn’t fail. He needed one special person whom he could trust. He needed a soldier. Asa had spent two years assembling his followers, a small army. But they were an army in numbers only. They’d certainly follow Asa into danger, but they’d never kill anyone.
Of these followers, Asa had, in recent weeks, selected a few to be his inner circle. Those most devoted to him. This was the entourage he was going to need to fulfill his plan. But they, too, would stop short of murder.
Asa himself was no murderer. He didn’t have the guts for it, and, besides, smart people didn’t fight battles. They sent people to fight battles for them. They persuaded other people to bloody up their hands. Smart people used silky words.
Cody was Asa’s latest choice for his inner circle. He had been there at the earliest meetings nearly two years ago, and he quickly became one of Asa’s most fervent supporters. It wasn’t only Cody’s gusto that told Asa this was his man. It was Cody’s mind. His simple, pure, hoodwinked mind.
This man was Asa’s killer.
As part of the initiation into his inner circle, Asa tested the new recruits, made them do something truly heinous to assess their resolve. They’d all passed their tests quite easily. This really shouldn’t have surprised Asa as much as it had, knowing how brainwashed they were—and having been the one who did the brainwashing. Yet it still confounded him to see how completely people were willing to give up their sovereignty, their dignity, their pride. Their souls.
But none of them had been asked to do as much as he was asking of Cody right now. Asa’s most special follower needed an extra special test—and so far Cody was failing. So Asa would give him the extra push he needed.
More words. More silk.
Asa leaned closer to him again. “There are those who are willing to do what they must. And then there are those who are willing to do what is necessary.”
Asa had come up with that phrase on the fly. But it sounded dynamic. Like something from a famous philosopher. Or a general. Or a line from one of Asa’s old speeches.
And it did the trick.
Cody took a deep breath.
The stranger shook his head, eyes going even wider, screaming through his gag.
And Cod
y fired.
A crack blasted through the walls of the barn. Horribly loud.
Blood sprayed. The man’s damaged head fell to his chest.
Cody’s arm shook harder now. His mouth was open. A look of bewilderment on his face as he slowly lowered the gun to his side.
Initial shock. He’d get over it. Asa had no doubt of that. There was resolve in Cody Ellis. And a deep darkness. That’s why Asa had chosen him.
Asa had found his assassin.
Chapter Two
Thirty miles away. Downtown Knoxville.
Things were going really well for Dale Conley.
Right before all hell broke loose.
He sat at an ornate, wrought iron table, waiting for his date to return. They’d ordered their meals, exchanged a few pleasantries, and she’d apologetically excused herself to go to the bathroom. The table was outside, and Dale glanced up at the stars in the black sky between the city’s cement walls. He adjusted his leather jacket. It was cool outside, almost cold, but not oppressively so. Refreshing. Just enough to chill the tip of his nose. Under his jacket, Dale wore a dark brown dress shirt, tucked into his 501s. The shirt’s collar was a bit wide but not so wide that it strayed into butterfly collar territory. Dale had worn butterfly collars a couple times in the past and felt rather goofy doing so.
The restaurant was called The Missing Wink, and it was on Gay Street, a main thoroughfare running through the tall buildings of downtown. Gay Street was a nightlife destination and just as happy of a place as its moniker suggested, with plenty of restaurants and stores and an overall sense of goodhearted joy. A block in front of Dale was the massive sign for the Tennessee Theatre, lit up magnificently against the nighttime sky with TENNESSEE written vertically along five stories of the ten-story building that housed its entrance. The letters jutted out over the sidewalk, blazing white and encircled by a loop of bright bulbs, all of which blasted light onto the streetscape. At the entrance below, a crowd was queued up, buying tickets for whatever excitement was going on that night. Dale had taken an immediate interest in the historic venue and discovered that the so-called “movie palace” had been built in 1928, seated nearly 2,000, was home to a famed and beloved Wurlitzer Organ, and was lavishly designed in the short-lived Moorish Revival style, accented by an eclectic mix of other design influences from around the world: French chandeliers, Czechoslovakian crystals, Italian flooring, Asian carpeting.
It was a few minutes past eight. People strolled by on the sidewalk to Dale’s right. Everyone wore coats, bundled up against the evening’s chill. Laughing. Happy conversations. Couples arm-in-arm. Just past the foot traffic was the automobile traffic on Gay Street. The cars crept along slowly, peacefully. No one was in a rush.
Dale took in a deep breath, savored the experience. Things would get chaotic soon. They always did with his assignments. But for this briefest of moments, he could relax.
It was then that he saw the sinister-looking man eyeballing him from across the street.
Dale’s heart jumped.
The man was casually leaning against a wall on the opposite side of Gay Street. As the people flowed around him, he remained stationary.
With his eyes locked on Dale.
The man didn’t look homeless, but he was a bit disheveled. Like he needed a bath, a decent meal, and a good night’s sleep. He was average height, maybe a tad short. White. He wore a nice-looking—though crumpled—pair of Levis along with a mustard-colored turtleneck covered by a red flannel. His hair was dark brown and parted but in need of a combing. His full beard was much lighter than his hair and reddish in color. Some guys simply had different colors of facial and head hair, Dale realized, but the mismatch instantly made Dale’s brain flash on a single word: fake. Dale himself often wore fake mustaches and beards in his line of work.
As the man looked away, Dale’s better judgement prevailed. He was just being paranoid. Yes, that had to be it. But he’d forgive himself his paranoia because he had more than enough cause for it—given the only reason he’d suddenly found himself in Tennessee was a cryptic message he’d received, a message that he only partly understood. When he woke up that morning in Washington, D.C., it had been a normal day in what was supposed to be a short break in between assignments.
Then he got the phone call.
His office had found a mysterious message in the classified ads of the Washington Inquisitor newspaper. And it seemed to be addressed to Dale, which was incredibly perplexing—and disturbing—because no one was supposed to know who Dale was or whom he worked for. He’d been called into the office, and after examining the message, Dale determined that he needed to get on a plane to Knoxville en route to Oak Ridge.
So while his day had begun with plans to go to the gym, have a run around the Mall, and make his approximately two-millionth visit to the National Museum of American History, the end of the day found him 500 miles away in Knoxville, Tennessee, waiting on his date to return to his table and wondering if the man across the street was out to get him.
Life’s funny.
He took his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out the scrap of newspaper—his copy of the mysterious note. He pulled his attention away from the man on the other side of the street and examined the note yet again.
It was a puzzle, loaded with clues. And while Dale had figured out the note’s hidden message, he still hadn’t the slightest idea who sent it.
Dale looked up to see his date leaving the restaurant and walking up to his table. She smiled at him — big, toothy, and happy. But also a bit nervous. Dale had gotten the impression that she didn’t go on many dates, and his brazen invitation had surely caught her off guard.
But she’d said yes.
Penny Whitworth was tall—about five-foot-eight—with medium brown hair, a curvaceous figure, and an adorable face with round cheeks, prominent cheekbones, and ever-present dimples resting on either side of her perpetual, 100-watt smile. Her sparkly eyes had a cat-like quality, marrying up with an overall presence of slight felineness. She wore a button-up, white shirt with three-quarter length sleeves and a short skirt—plaid with colors of white, dark brown, and a hint of yellow. Her tights were canary yellow, and her block heels were glossy white, strappy, and tall. And altogether lovely. Dale had a thing for heels.
“Sorry about that,” Penny said as she pulled out the heavy, iron chair across from Dale and sat.
Dale put his wallet away. He leaned around the table and looked at her heels then back to her. “Those are some shoes.”
She smiled brighter. “Thank you! I just got them, but they’re already my favorites. I really splurged on them.” She bit her lip with faux embarrassment.
“They were worth every penny, Penny.”
She groaned. “Yeah, I’ve never heard gags like that before.” But she continued to smile. “So … you just got into town an hour ago, and you’re already on a date. You move fast.”
Before Dale replied, he glanced to the other side of the street again. Redbeard was still leaning against the wall. And he was watching Dale again.
Dale looked back to Penny. “What can I say? When you check into your hotel and there’s a pretty girl waiting in line behind you, you gotta make your move. Life’s short.”
“You’re new in town, too?” she said and brushed a hair away from her eye. She had long bangs, all the way to her eyebrows, and the rest of her hair fell just below her shoulders.
“Only a short visit, I’m afraid. I live in D.C. And I’ll actually be working over in Oak Ridge. I’ll get a motel there tomorrow. I’m beat from traveling, so I wanted a nice hotel for my first night. My boss won’t mind.”
This was, of course, stretching the truth a tad. Hell, it was straight-up false. Dale’s boss, Walter Taft, was going to have a conniption fit when he got the bill for Dale’s first night in Tennessee. Dale had picked a damn nice hotel, and Taft’s cheapskatedness was the stuff of legend. Songs were written about it.
Penny’s smile dropped a bit f
or the first time. It didn’t disappear; it just dimmed, went down to about 60 watts. “Oh. So you’re not staying in the area?”
It was clear that she was disappointed by the seeming lack of potential for their date given the distance between their homes, which made it even more apparent that going on this date had been a big deal for her.
“Well … no,” Dale said. “But my job requires me to travel a lot. I don’t consider distance a barrier.”
What Dale had just said could easily have been interpreted as a smooth line devoid of substance. But he’d meant it. Dale had immediately been able to tell what a genuine soul Penny was, and though Dale was a notorious serial-dater, she was just the sort of girl who was worth investing serious thought into. Long-distance be damned.
The smile brightened again. “I’ve been staying at the hotel for a week now,” Penny said. “Learning my way around town, finding a place to stay. I start my new job tomorrow. A nurse.”