Following Rain

by Darrel Nelson

  Following Rain

  Darrel Nelson

  © 2015 Darrel Nelson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means--electronic, mechanical, photo-copying, recording, or otherwise--without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews. For information address Hartline Literary Agency, 123 Queenston Drive; Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania 15235.

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental or is a fictionalized account of an actual event.

  As with my other novels, this book is dedicated to the love of my life, Marsha.

  Special thanks to Joyce Hart, my agent these six years, and to Elizabeth-Anne Kim for their wonderful assistance in preparing Following Rain for publication. Also, thanks to Liana for proofreading the manuscript.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1: Ten years later

  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

  About the Author:

  More from Darrel Nelson:

  PROLOGUE

  August 2003

  The girl’s eyes widened in horror when she recognized the man standing in the glare of the porch light. “Dad!” she gasped.

  Her father’s presence seemed to fill the entire doorway. A scowl furrowed his forehead, and his expression—backlit by the porch light—increased the sullenness of his appearance. “Time to go,” he said firmly, above the sounds of boisterous laughter and talking that issued from within.

  “Wh—what are you doing here?”

  “The real question is what are you doing here? You told us you were going to Breann’s to study. And apparently Breann told her mom she was coming to our place.” His eyes narrowed and he cocked his ear toward the noise coming through the open doorway. “This isn’t either place, and it sure doesn’t sound like studying is going on.” He sniffed the air and his scowl deepened. “Have you been drinking?”

  The young man who had answered the door thrust his beer bottle behind his back. “We’re just having a little party,” he said quickly. “A few friends dropped by to—”

  “I’m not interested,” the girl’s father said, holding up his hand like a stop sign. “I’m here for my daughter.” He looked at her determinedly and motioned toward the street. “Let’s go.”

  The girl hesitated and then blurted, “I can’t believe you’re doing this. You’ve totally embarrassed me!”

  “You’ll live.” Her father stepped aside to allow her to pass. “And just for the record, it will be by our rules.”

  “I’m old enough to make my own decisions!”

  Her father shook his head. “Not yet you’re not. Now let’s go.”

  The young man, still clutching the bottle behind his back, cleared this throat and shuffled his feet. “We’re not doing drugs or anything, man. We’re just—”

  He stopped talking when the girl’s father stepped so close that their noses practically touched. “I know how these parties work. You want to have a good time. But it’s not going to be with my daughter. She’s underage. Got it?”

  It was not a question that required an answer. The young man dropped his gaze and took a step back.

  “Your parents aren’t home, are they?” the girl’s father asked coolly.

  “N—no.”

  “So they don’t know anything about this?”

  The young man hesitated and then shook his head.

  The girl’s father exhaled slowly and glanced through the open doorway once more. “I’ve called Breann’s parents. They’ll be here in a few minutes. I suggest you give her the heads-up.”

  Groaning in humiliation, the girl stormed past her father, her long, brown hair bouncing about her shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were filled with angry tears. She raced down the sidewalk to the waiting car parked under a streetlight. Yanking the back door open, she found her younger brother sitting there listening to his iPod. “Move over!” she demanded, giving him a shove.

  He removed an earphone and said, “Go to the other side.”

  “Mom!” the girl protested, addressing the woman sitting in the front passenger seat.

  “You’re in no position to ask for anything,” her mother replied sharply.

  Rolling her eyes, the girl muttered, “Whatever!” She stormed around to the other side and got in, slamming the door forcefully behind her. When her brother looked at her and grinned, she snapped, “Stop staring!”

  Her brother simply mouthed “Busted,” and returned to his music.

  The girl pouted in the backseat as her father arrived and climbed into the car. Because she sat directly behind him, she could see his face framed in the rearview mirror, but she refused to make eye contact.

  “Let’s get home,” her father said, putting the car in gear and pulling away from the curb. “We’ll talk there.”

  “We’ll see about that,” the girl replied sullenly. “You’ve ruined my life!” Her brother shot a glance at her from the corner of his eye and she shouted, “I said to stop staring!”

  “Keep your voice down,” her mother said, raising her own voice.

  “Tell him to stop staring at me.”

  “You’ve got bigger things to worry about, young lady,” her father said sternly. “You lied to us.”

  “Yeah, well, you spied on me.” The girl turned on her brother and yanked out his earphones. “Did you tell Mom and Dad? You little snitch! You told on me, didn’t you? I’m going to—”

  “He didn’t tell on you,” her mother said, interrupting the accusatory tirade. “I called Breann’s place to tell you that you forgot your backpack, but you and Breann weren’t there. I made several more telephone calls and found out about the party.”

  “You were checking up on me? You don’t trust me!”

  “And this is how you build trust?” her father said, his voice increasing in volume. “By lying to us?”

  “You’ve embarrassed me so bad. I’m never speaking to you again!”

  “That’ll be nice,” her brother said, retrieving his earphones and receiving a retaliatory swat on the arm.

  The girl fumed a little longer and then said, “Everyone is going to know what you guys did. I’ll be the biggest loser in the history of the school.” Staring out the window, she moaned dramatically. “I’ll never be able to face my friends again.”

  Her father slowed the car at an approaching intersection and made a right turn onto a side street. Then he sped up as the night deepened and the moon appeared overtop of an apartment building.

  Crossing her arms angrily, the girl sat with her chin resting on her chest. At length she said, “Why did you have to embarrass me lik
e that? It was just beer and some other stuff.”

  “You know the rules,” her father answered. “You’re not allowed to drink alcohol or attend parties where it’s served.”

  “That’s so old-fashioned. It’s a dumb rule!”

  “Keep your voice down,” her mother warned again. “And besides, there are always going to be rules. Your father and I have to follow rules. Traffic rules, work rules, government—”

  “I don’t want to hear about your stupid rules!”

  Her father turned and gave her the look. His eyes glowed eerily in the light from the instrument panel. “I won’t have you talking to us like that! You’re in enough trouble already.”

  “Eyes on the road, dear,” his wife said, nudging him with her elbow.

  He complied . . . for ten seconds. That’s how long it took for the girl’s outrage to find new expression. This time both parents twisted around, locking eyes with their daughter in a tangle of angry glares.

  No one saw the dark shape that suddenly appeared in the passenger-side window as they roared into the intersection.

  CHAPTER 1

  Ten years later

  Paul Blakely sat in his cubicle at station KNEX-TV in Seattle, reading an e-mail he had just received. Dated Monday, August 5, 2013, it was from Kazuhiro “Kaz” Hirotoma, his father’s business associate and long-time family friend, alleging that money donated to the Noxby Medical Center for an MRI machine had mysteriously disappeared. The staff had subsequently closed ranks and the administrator wasn’t returning phone calls.

  Leaning back in his chair, Paul contemplated the communication, unable to suppress a smile. Kaz Hirotoma was a respected citizen and philanthropist, as well as a personal acquaintance, and so the validity of the tip was unquestionable. Just the way Paul liked it.

  As an investigative reporter, Paul appreciated the tips he frequently received. They were an indicator of the public’s trust and support. He even posted messages on Twitter and Facebook, inviting story ideas. The good citizens of Seattle were his eyes and ears, and it allowed him to stay on top of current events, both civic and political. If the information in this e-mail was legitimate, and there was no reason to doubt it, a newsworthy scandal was in the making, one that would give him an excellent opportunity to scoop the other news stations. His “Spidey” senses, as he called them, were tingling and that was always a good sign.

  Still, the facts had to be verified before allegations could be broadcast publically. It was important not to rush to judgment despite the reliability of the source, otherwise a lawsuit could be slapped against the station faster than the time it takes for a political figure’s indiscretions to go viral on the Internet. Like a paleontologist of the news, Paul needed to carefully unearth enough of the skeleton to reconstruct the secrets buried beneath the surface. And at the same time hope that a rival station didn’t beat him to the dig site.

  That was the trouble in this business. It was highly competitive. Some reporters were willing to step all over you to get ahead; others were quite capable of stabbing you in the back. The breaking story was the thing, and the price paid to obtain it was of little concern to the public, whose appetite for up-to-the-minute news was insatiable.

  Three months ago he had received a tip that Grandin Enterprises, a company hired to maintain public facilities, was cheating the city out of millions of dollars by overbilling and using sub-grade materials manufactured in Taiwan. His breaking news story scooped the other local stations. It resulted in a civic award that now hung prominently on the wall of his cubicle beside his certificate of graduation from the Edward R. Murrow College of Communications. At twenty-six, Paul was the youngest investigative reporter on staff to receive the award.

  He was proud of his accomplishment and was anxious to experience more success. It served as a reminder to his competitors of where he ranked in the scheme of things. It also stood as a warning to contracted companies to toe the line . . . or else! Image was important, but results even more so. In the investigative reporting business it was crucial not to become yesterday’s news.

  The telephone on his desk rang just then, tearing his attention away from the e-mail. He snatched up the receiver in a single motion and placed it to his ear. “Paul Blakely,” he said, with practiced cheerfulness. A warm reception suggested welcome, which, in turn, invited openness—an essential ingredient in the recipe for volunteered information.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Blakely.”

  Paul recognized the secretary’s voice and grimaced. He knew what was coming next.

  “Mrs. Townsend would like to see you in her office right away.”

  Susan Townsend was the news director. She was not someone you said no to. Ever. Nor was she someone with whom you dropped in to have a pleasant chat. She had the personality of a pit bull and the jowls to go with it.

  “I’ll be right there,” he said and hung up. He furrowed his brow as he glanced at the e-mail he had just received. The follow-up call was going to have to wait.

  In the planning meeting earlier that morning, the executive producer had made the assignments for the day. Paul was given time to continue working on a story he was developing. It concerned the impact that single-cup coffee makers were having on the Seattle environment. But something told him that his schedule was about to change.

  As news director, Susan often pulled rank on the executive producer—Paul’s immediate superior—and hassled everyone about keeping ahead of the news, chastising her staff for not being on the scene before the event occurred. It was unreasonable, impossible actually, but it was a philosophy she adopted to ensure she stayed in the loop. Blowing the lid off scandals and cover-ups was something she wanted the station to be credited for, and she insisted her staff keep one hand on the detonator at all times. But if a rival station got there first . . . Paul shuddered at the thought of her expression on such occasions. That’s when things got ugly.

  He closed out the e-mail and lowered the lid on his laptop. Then he smoothed down his short, brown hair and tugged on his collar. There was only so much a person could do to prepare for a meeting with Susan Townsend. But being disheveled in your appearance was not the way to get off to a good start.

  After easing his six-one frame out of his chair, he crossed the busy, central workspace toward the office door that read: Susan Townsend, News Director. The hum and whir of electronic devices and the chatter of reporters and secretarial staff combined to form a unique symphony of sounds that he loved. The sounds of news in the making.

  The secretary, a pretty brunette, was positioned strategically to intercept all incoming traffic. She smiled flirtatiously as Paul approached her desk. “Mrs. Townsend is waiting for you, Mr. Blakely. Go right on in.”

  “Thanks,” Paul replied, returning the secretary’s smile. He had dated her a couple of times but it hadn’t gone anywhere. His choice.

  Susan Townsend sat behind her desk, focused on her laptop. Without glancing up, she motioned for him to sit down.

  He sat in a padded chair that faced the red mahogany desk. As he glanced around the room, he chaffed inwardly because Susan loved to make others play the waiting game. Her world, her rules. The unscheduled progress report meetings she frequently called were a distraction, really. They interfered with the very progress she wanted the staff to achieve. But no one dared say so.

  Finally, she looked up from her laptop. “Thanks for waiting,” she said curtly.

  “No problem.”

  She interlaced her fingers and trained her dark eyes on him.

  Paul tried not to shift in his chair as he waited for her to determine the subject of their conversation. He sent news reports to her regularly, and she provided feedback in the form of short, succinct comments. Genuine praise from her was rare, although not without precedent. She had congratulated him last year when he exposed a drug operation that was cooking and selling crystal meth. His report went national and was the top story on all the major news networks. And then, of course, the Grandin Ent
erprises scandal three months ago. But since then she was back to providing only short, succinct comments.

  A slight scowl creased her forehead and her jowls tightened. “We have an unexpected problem, Paul.”

  A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind, none of them good. Struggling to maintain a relaxed, everything-is-under-control expression, he said, “Problem?”

  “Yes. Jennifer Wheelan just received word that her father passed away.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Paul said sympathetically. He had dated Jennifer briefly last year but found, ironically, they had little in common. Things had eventually fizzled.

  “She’ll be away for at least a week.” Susan briefly glanced back at her laptop. “She had an interview set up with Maria Sanchez but obviously won’t be able to make it. The interview could be rescheduled, but I’d just as soon it wasn’t. So I’d like you to handle it.”

  Paul nodded. “Sure. Is there something about Maria Sanchez that you want me to look into? Some wrongdoing maybe?”

  “Not at all. I realize you do investigative, long-format stories, but I think you’re the right person to handle this in Jennifer’s absence. It’s a straightforward interview.”

  “Do I get to take Grunge for the shoot?”

  Carl “Grunge” Farantino was Paul’s friend and the station’s best cameraman.

  “Do the interview first to get some background and plan your report,” Susan replied. “You and Carl”—Susan didn’t do nicknames—“can go back a couple of days later for some footage.”

  Realizing he had no choice anyway, Paul shrugged. “Okay, so where do I find Maria Sanchez?”

  “At Welcoming Hands, the homeless shelter on Broad Street.”

  Paul raised both eyebrows.

  “Maria Sanchez is the director,” Susan continued, “and Welcoming Hands is organizing its annual fundraiser. Jennifer was preparing a feature report to help promote it. Part of that process included an interview with Maria. It’s important that we keep ourselves involved in community issues.” Her jowls tightened and her expression grew more solemn. “The station has come under criticism for ignoring charitable causes in the past, but we’re beyond that, I trust.”