by Erik Carter
Be Still
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.
Contents
Hot Springs, Arkansas
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
Hot Springs, Arkansas
The 1970s
Chapter One
The woman stared at the projection, squinted her eyes as she gave things one more moment of consideration, then turned to the others and said, “Eliminate Dale Conley.”
Nash Harbick had heard enough.
“No!” he shouted.
The woman took a couple steps away from the projector screen, toward the conference table, eyes on Nash. The projector’s bright light illuminated the edges of her gray-white hair—straight, parted, and shiny. She gave him a cold smile.
“Oh, so Mr. Harbick does have some backbone.”
Alberta Ventress had the look of a predatory bird—bright blue eyes over a slightly long, slightly curved nose. Her lips were tight and rather thin, naturally red, with small wrinkles pursed around the edges.
They were in a hotel board room. The white curtains drawn over the windows were sheer, allowing the gloom beyond to creep in. The weather was so dark that it almost looked like nighttime—there was only enough daylight to prove that it wasn’t. Rain pattered the glass loudly, violently, and gusts of wind rattled the window frames.
Nash sat at the end of a small conference table—made of dark wood, scratched and worn from decades of gentle use—which was centered in the room. Next to him, positioned at the table’s edge, was a small projector. Its fan hummed, breathing warm air onto Nash’s arm. From the transparency loaded on its glass surface, it blasted a short list of text onto the screen at the back wall:
Dale Conley
serial killers
victim: Mira Lyndon
Seated at the table along with Nash were three men in dress clothes and one in a park ranger uniform. In other chairs positioned against the walls were two small groups of people, sitting on opposite sides of the room. One was a trio of cold-looking men wearing tactical gear, and the other was a group of four Hot Springs police officers, in uniform—three men and one attractive young female.
Nash desperately scanned their faces, hoping to find anyone else who thought that the command to execute Dale Conley was madness. His eyes landed on Special Agent in Charge Walter Taft, Dale’s boss at the Bureau of Esoteric Investigation, an older guy with reddish skin and reddish-gray hair wearing a tacky short-sleeve-and-tie combo. If anyone in the room besides Nash believed in Dale, it would be Taft.
Nash leaned forward on the table, looking past Higgins, who sat between Nash and Taft.
“Aren’t you going to do something?” he said to Taft, throwing up his hands.
Taft waved it away. “Don’t worry, Harbick. I’m not going to let this lady kill one of my agents.”
“Oh, you’re not, are you?” Ventress said, swinging her gaze past Nash to her new target. “Your agent is the reason we’re all in this mess, Taft.”
“And you assembled us here five minutes ago. It takes more than five minutes to sign a man’s death warrant.”
“Not when that man is a federal agent who’s gone nuts and kidnapped a witness. The case’s only witness. A woman who was recovering in a hospital from being attacked by a serial killer. The same serial killer your man was trying to track down. Conley has lost his damn mind. The girl’s in danger, and I stand by what I said.” She looked at the men in tactical gear. “If you find Conley and the girl together, you bring that son of a bitch down.”
Nash wasn’t going to give up on this. He couldn’t.
“When he abducted Mira Lyndon from the hospital,” Nash said, “Agent Conley told me he had a new lead in the investigation.”
“Oh, yes. That’s right!” Ventress said, her words dripping with venomous sarcasm. “Conley purposefully left you behind when he kidnapped this woman and wouldn’t tell you why he was doing it. Yet, you’re the man who Conley handpicked as an expert consultant for the case.”
“He told me there were good reasons for what he was doing.”
“And you believe that?”
“Yes, I do.”
There was a cardboard box on the table to Ventress’ right, the kind used for file storage. She stepped over to it, grabbed a folder, and looked through the contents as she said, “Because you worked together in the past, on a case up around the Great Lakes. Is that correct?”
“Yes. We were partnered together three years ago. When I was still an FBI agent.”
Ventress put the folder down. “Do you trust everyone so easily, Mr. Harbick, or is it just Agent Conley’s notorious charm that got to you?”
Taft slapped his hand on the table.
“Knock it off, Ventress! Stop grilling the guy. You’re treating him like he’s on the stand.”
She turned on him.
“Suck me dry, Taft. I’m here to do a job, to clean up the mess you and Fulton created,” she said and stuck a finger toward the black man wearing an immaculate suit. “Conley’s run amok, and neither one of you idiots did your jobs and stopped him. So since I have to do what you two couldn’t, I’ll do so however I goddamn please.”
She took a step closer to Taft, her heels tapping on the floor. Nash had observed how she floated about the room effortlessly, placing herself in the best positions. He was again reminded of a bird of prey, floating high in the sky, pinpointing its quarry.
“And you know what?” Ventress continued. “That’s not a bad idea. A little trial.” She looked at Nash. “You’re gonna answer some questions, Harbick, starting with, why the hell are you sticking up for Dale Conley after what he did to you?”
“Because forgiveness is the most powerful quality a person can have.”
“You must be a pretty forgiving person then, Harbick. And you m
ust be pretty impressed with Dale Conley, yes?”
Nash paused before responding. For just a second. But he wasn’t searching for an answer. It was a moment of remembrance. The answer had come to him immediately.
“He was the best agent I ever worked with.”
Chapter Two
Three years earlier.
Nash was in the passenger side of a snarling sports car, clinging to the black leather seat for dear life. It was a De Tomaso Pantera, a mid-engine car with its V8 positioned right behind the cab. Nash could feel the engine’s power surging through the seat cushion, and the deafening sound roared all around him.
He looked out over the pointed, sloping, orange-colored hood at the cityscape rushing by in a blur on either side of the street. Several blocks ahead of them was their prize, a Chevy Malibu, weaving through traffic.
Driving was Dale Conley, another federal agent and Nash’s temporary partner for this assignment. The car belonged to him. He was in his thirties, toned physique, shaggy brown hair. He wore a T-shirt and jeans and a pair of mirrored sunglasses.
And a shit-eating grin.
Dale dropped the stick down another gear, and the Pantera’s engine bellowed behind Nash’s head. Both men’s heads snapped back into their headrests.
Dale let out a howl of sheer delight.
“Hahahaaaaaaa!!!”
A flashing emergency light hung from the rearview mirror, and a siren blared. Of course, sirens weren’t standard equipment in Italian supercars; Dale had told Nash that he installed it himself. Dale had a love affair with the car that was definitely eccentric, perhaps a bit creepy, and bordering on the insane. He’d named it Arancia, after the Italian word for orange. When Nash had told him that arancia was the Italian word for the fruit, not the color, Dale had said he rejected name Arancione—the word for the color—because he thought Arancia “had more zing” and that the feminine A at the end of the word made better sense. After all, Dale had contended, vessels had always been given female names, and Arancia was his ship. He even talked about Arancia with the appropriate pronouns—she, her, and hers.
Nash had known other men who referred to their cars and motorcycles as females, so that by itself didn’t convince him that Dale was idiosyncratic. But when Dale attended a thirty-minute seminar at the hotel in which they were staying—a brief session on the once-in-a-lifetime money-making opportunity of opening a septic service franchise—simply to get a chance at the cookie tray he’d spotted, Nash then knew…
Dale Conley was an odd duck.
Cars pulled over for them as they barreled down the crowded city street. They were closing on the Malibu, but it still had a good lead on them—about four blocks of separation. Further down the street was a crossroad lined with trees—the famous Lake Shore Drive—and beyond that was the endless expanse of Lake Michigan, deep blue, mirroring the sky above that was equally blue and filled with big, white clouds.
It was a spring day, and Dale had the windows down. Comfortable air whooshed through the cab. Nash was beginning to smell the lake water.
The Malibu’s brake lights came on for a moment, it slowed to a near stop, and then it turned right onto Lake Shore, disappearing from view
“We’re gonna lose him,” Nash said.
“No, we’re not.”
As they flew toward the lake, Dale didn’t show any sign that he was going to slow down. In fact, he pushed down harder on the gas pedal, Arancia’s engine wailing.
Nash looked at the lake. It was close enough now that he could see the crisp details of white light shimmering off the gentle waves. The lake smell was getting stronger.
And still Dale hadn’t braked.
“Dale…?”
Nash looked over at him.
Dale tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Didn’t touch the break.
Nash looked at the lake. Closer yet. People walking along the shoreline pointed toward Arancia.
“Dale!”
Dale narrowed his eyes, lowered his head.
Smiled bigger.
The lake was right in front of them.
“Dale!!!”
Right as they hit Lakeshore Drive, Dale yanked the steering wheel to the right. The whole car roared, the tires squealed, and they thrashed viciously around the corner. Nash slid on the leather seat, slapping at the roof, trying to hold on. Arancia’s rear end fishtailed, and the view in front of Nash shifted rapidly: lake, people, cars, lake, trees, cars…
And just as the chaos reached its zenith, it came to a sudden stop.
Dale had steadied her. They were now barreling down Lake Shore Drive. Lake Michigan was to their left, and the towering buildings of Chicago’s downtown lay before them. The Hancock Tower was directly ahead, its famed silhouette and X-brace facade looming high into the sky.
Dale laughed again.
“Ha HA! Yes! Yes! Yessssss!”
He smacked the steering wheel appreciatively.
With the long, relatively straight and uninterrupted road ahead of them, Nash lessened his grip on the seat slightly. He took a couple deep breaths—reacclimating his mind to the fact that he was indeed still alive—and muttered with frustration as he readjusted his position in the seat.
“God damn, Dale. You sound like you’re having an orgasm.”
“I’m not entirely certain that I’m not,” Dale said through his big grin. “Isn’t this the greatest? Best job in the whole damn world.”
Ahead of them, the gap to the Malibu was closing. It was bright blue in color, driving erratically, and was sheltering only one person, the man they were after: Ike Gallo.
The Malibu traced the curve of Lake Shore to the left, where Oak Street Beach appeared. A paved path followed Lake Shore and led to the beach. People—both on the path and at the beach—were turned, staring at the car chase.
Nash saw Dale’s attention go to the path. An attractive woman in a bikini was climbing high up the fence, craning to look at the excitement. Dale gave her a smile and a little two-finger wave.
Nash also saw what Dale had not, where the Malibu was going.
“Dale! He’s exiting!”
The Malibu zipped to the right, past a divider, plunging into the skyscrapers.
Dale looked back to the road.
“Oh, shit!”
He yanked the steering wheel to the right. Arancia’s rear end fishtailed, tires twittering, and they swooshed over to the off-ramp, narrowly avoiding the cement divider.
Nash shot him a look.
“She was looking my way,” Dale said. “I swear.”
“You have your damn siren on. Everyone’s looking our way.”
They flew into the shadows of the tall buildings. Arancia’s siren wailed off the concrete-and-metal walls. They zoomed past the Hancock Tower.
The Malibu was a couple blocks ahead. It weaved through the traffic. But the much faster Arancia was rapidly closing in. They were right on Gallo’s tail.
“We got him now,” Dale said.
“Yeah? And how are we gonna get him to stop?”
They pushed out of the darkness of the buildings, into the bright sunshine for a moment where the city opened up for the Chicago River. Nash squinted, threw his hand over his eyes. They crossed a bridge over the river then slipped into the buildings’ shadows once more.
Suddenly Dale tapped the brakes and pulled the wheel. Arancia’s tires squealed, and the car drifted to the side, slowing nearly to a stop before Dale dropped the stick into second and hammered the gas, bolting them forward again.
“What was it?” Nash said.
Dale pointed to the rearview, not taking his eyes off the Malibu.
Nash turned in his seat and looked out the rear window. Behind them, a squirrel scampered off the street and onto the safety of the sidewalk.
Nash gave Dale another look.
“You kiddin’ me, man?”
Ahead, the Malibu took a left.
“Dammit, Dale. You lost him.”
Dale shook his head and l
et out a dramatic sigh. “Oh, ye of little faith.”
He pulled Arancia to the left onto Monroe.
“No! Next street up!” Nash shouted. “He turned on Jackson.”
“Just wait,” Dale said.
At the first road that crossed Monroe, Dale yanked Arancia to the right, and as soon as he did, he dropped the stick into a lower gear and floored the gas, barreling past the traffic. Again, both men’s heads flew back into their seats.
Nash saw the street sign for the next cross street ahead of them: E JACKSON DR.
Dale quickly checked for traffic coming across Jackson, and right as Arancia flew into the intersection, the Malibu zoomed in from the right.
And braked.
Hard.
The Malibu’s tires let out a roar. Smoked billowed from the wheel wells, quickly forming a cloud. And the car shuddered to the side.
For just a moment, the driver turned his head and looked right at them. Ike Gallo. A large man with working-class good looks. Light brown hair, fairly long. Sideburns. A gap between his front teeth, which were bared as he clung to his steering wheel, eyes wide, clearly wondering how the hell Dale and Nash had caught up with him.
He swung the Malibu to the side, nearly losing control, and instead continued onto the road his car had ended up facing. Columbus Drive.