Wayward Sons

by Wayne Stinnett

  “I’m good for now, thanks.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Jerry, I wondered if you’d heard the news about Hildon this morning?”

  “Chapter Seven—yeah.”

  “Couldn’t happen to a finer bunch of folk.”

  “I’m worried about Flor’s treatment, Arlen,” I said. “They’re going to sell off all of Hildon’s patents.”

  “No need to worry. I took care of the Anthradone problem.”

  “You took care of that? Past tense?” I couldn’t believe my ears. “How? There hasn’t been an auction for Hildon’s patents yet.”

  “Now, Jerry, the auction is only a formality for the official exchange of assets to pay off Hildon’s debtors, so what’s the difference if some things are sold before the opening bell? Money still gets to the pockets of people who are owed, and ownership is only a minor detail in the instance of a pharmaceutical product. The more important consideration is getting treatments to the people who need it, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “You’re not answering my question.”

  Arlen chuckled. “You’re all business, aren’t you? A well-placed connection let me get the jump on things. Considering a child’s life hangs in the balance, timeliness became a factor. I was able to expedite the normal process.”

  “Holding the Anthradone patent is only half the problem,” I said.

  “Creating Flor’s treatment is the other half,” he answered. “I know; I’ve got those ducks all lined up. Markel’s old lab was very eager to come to a financial agreement with Burkhart & Associates. Flor’s dose of Anthradone will be ready in about two weeks. I’ll get it shipped to your house on Frenchman Bay Road, along with instructions on how to administer it—Alicia can handle that part, I’m sure.”

  “Yeah,” I said, dumbfounded. “She can do it.”

  “Wonderful!”

  “Thanks, Arlen.”

  “Anything for family. Now, I really must get back to this property inspection—you know how it is. Folks are always so busy.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Bye.”

  I ended the call, still unsure how to process everything. Arlen had saved Flor’s life. That was a good thing, wasn’t it?

  Then, something else surfaced from the murkiness of that conversation. How did Arlen know I lived on Frenchman Bay Road?

  Arlen’s new private island looked better in person than it did online. On a computer screen, though, the sun could not kiss your bare arms, and the salty ocean breeze could not press into your nostrils. A computer could not take you to the highest precipice of your island’s coast any better than it could do backflips for your pleasure.

  From this vantage point, on the leeward side of his new private island, Arlen saw the shimmering hot air baking across the terracotta shingles of the fourteen-bedroom, sixteen-bathroom mansion about a mile off. Between there and here, a mass of untamed greenery, rife with secrets and hidden places. Not a bad spot to call home for the foreseeable future.

  At the base of the cliff, he marveled at the deep blue water fraying against the rocks a hundred feet below. The ocean was a patient, persistent thing, always working toward a greater goal of wearing down all the land, taking the whole of the world into its possession.

  “Sure is pretty, Mr.—uh, Condor.” Patrick Edwards, the greasy little man Arlen had paid to keep an eye on Jerry’s home, grabbed the trunk of a sapling, bending it almost to the point of breaking as he pulled himself to the crest of the hill.

  Didn’t he know that tree didn’t belong to him? Where did he get off mistreating it so?

  Mr. Edwards was getting too familiar, too casual, and much too fast. Did he think of himself as a peer to Arlen Burkhart? He certainly seemed pleased as punch to step up to that line, and lift his foot over, daring his superiors to cut it off, or suffer the embarrassment of his idiocy.

  “Please, call me Arlen,” he said, sure to smile amicably. “There’s no need for codenames or any of that clandestine nonsense now that we’re communicating face-to-face—it’s too impersonal.”

  “Right.” Edwards nodded his little round head. “I was just thinking, this is such a nice place you’ve got here. But now that you’ve got it, it needs protecting, right? There’s lots of dangerous people out there.”

  “Too true, Mr. Edwards. The world has never been a particularly kind-hearted place.”

  Edwards wiped sweat from his brow. For a man who lived in the Virgin Islands, he sure seemed poorly adapted to the climate.

  “This is a little beneath my talents,” Edwards said, “but I’d be willing to go on contract for you. I can manage a security team for you or run the kind of discreet errands you’d need from a man like me.”

  “That’s a very generous offer, Edwards, but I wouldn’t want to reduce a man of your stature to work best left to your lessers. You’re a busy man, with a long client list, I’m sure.”

  “Well,” He gulped down a breath. “I can make you my only client, Arlen. You need someone like me.”

  There he went, overstepping boundaries again. He was a pushy little cuss, assuming he knew what Arlen Burkhart needed.

  Arlen had been around his fair share of pushy men. They had a way of pushing into things they shouldn’t. Keeping Edwards around would inevitably end up with him digging into Arlen’s business, rooting around for blackmail.

  “We could talk about a retainer, perhaps,” Arlen said. “I must admit, you did a very fine job of bringing my boy’s journal back to me from Jerry Snyder’s home.”

  “Sure, Mr. Burkhart. I can write up a proposal if you like.”

  The slimy little man was too eager—Edwards practically had dollar signs for pupils.

  “No, I’d rather not create an unseemly paper trail. These sorts of things are best handled with as little trace as possible; don’t you think?”

  “A written contract is an absolute must, sir. Maybe I could sign it with a subsidiary of yours—keep your name off the deal.”

  Arlen lifted an eyebrow and looked at Edwards. He wasn’t completely ignorant of how these things worked. Too bad the man didn’t know what he didn’t know, or he never would’ve pushed Arlen.

  “Fine idea, son, fine idea. How’s about we walk back to the house, and talk shop in the parlor over lunch? I can have the crew on Heart and Soul bring a bit of marlin steak ashore. Do you like marlin steak?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Well, then, after you.” Arlen motioned for Edwards to take the lead. When he was two steps away, Arlen reached into the pocket of his shorts, took out his snub-nosed revolver, and fired two rounds into the back of Patrick Edwards’s head.

  Pity the man who didn’t know his place.

  The End

  Afterword by Wayne Stinnett

  This book has been a long time in coming. I got the first inkling for it while writing Rising Water in early 2019. At the same time, I was cowriting Vigilant Charity with Kim Bindschatel. Prior to that, I was searching for someone to take over writing the bulk of the Charity novels and mystery author, Stewart Matthews, volunteered. I’d read his books and had no doubt he could do it, but he lacked the one quality I wanted—the feminine touch.

  I knew I wanted to do another spinoff even before that, and introduced several new characters in Rising Charity, who I thought would be worthy of a series of their own. One of those characters came back in Rising Water, a one legged former Ranger by the name of DJ Martin. A new couple also appeared in that book—Jerry and Alicia Snyder. The chemistry between DJ and Jerry was all wrong, which made them perfect to become a team.

  I asked Stewart if he were still interested in collaborating on a new series, and he agreed. This was in the Fall of 2019. By the first of December, we had developed a working outline, then the hard work began.

  Today is March 11, 2021. Stewart and I have been working on this book for eighteen months, and it will be released in less than a month. During the time it took us to write this book, we each wrote and released several more on our own. Wayward Sons w
as a side project. During the writing of this book, I moved my office to a new location. The view at Lady’s Island Marina was spectacular, but unnecessary. People often commented on how motivational it must have been. Truth be told, when writing, I closed all the blinds in my office above the marina. It was a huge distraction.

  As always, I thank my family first. The support, ideas, and guidance they provide, even when unintended, is without measure. We made it through 2020, with all its challenges, and are looking forward to a brighter 2021.

  Much appreciation to a very select group of individuals, Jason Hebert, Mike Ramsey, Rick Iossi, Deg Priest, and Alan Fader, for their local knowledge and experience in helping with the details of this book.

  I owe a great deal of gratitude to Samantha Williams and Ashley Lobocki, owner and manager of Aurora Publicity. Their tireless efforts have provided me with the time I need to relax and recharge. Anyone who knows me well, can attest to me being a bit of a control freak. But I think taking off several of the many hats an indie author wears and turning that work over to someone better experienced to do it, will become one of the best decisions I’ve made. This allows me more time to write and spend with my family. God grants each of us only a certain number of hours to fulfil our lives and I want to make the most of those I have left.

  Marsha Zinberg is my editor. She has decades of experience and worked for a large publishing house in New York for many years. She now works independently and I’m fortunate to have met her at a writers conference several years ago.

  Donna Rich has been the last critical eye on my manuscripts almost from the start. By the time she gets it, there’s little left work left, but she always finds something to fine tune the helm. Thanks, Donna.

  In recording the audiobook version of Wayward Sons, Nick Sullivan breathed life into my and Stewart’s characters. Nick has been the voice behind Jesse and Charity for six years and twenty-four novels, plus my one volume of non-fiction. We’ve become great friends over the years and Nick co-hosts my monthly, livestreaming, video podcast, Talk Write. In case y’all didn’t know, besides being a veteran actor of stage and screen, with hundreds of audiobooks to his credit, Nick is also an extraordinary novelist. Check out his Deep Series, with Boone and Emily. Thanks, Nick, for all the late hours, texts, and phone calls.

  Wayward Sons is the first book in this brand new Caribbean Mystery Series, and I hope there will be many more to come. Thank you, my loyal readers, for taking another chance with me.

  Afterword by Stewart Matthews

  Among some circles of authors, Wayne Stinnett is a past master of all aspects of the craft. Wayne would be embarrassed if I went too deeply into why he’s a venerated figure, so allow me to cut to my point: when he asked me to co-author a new series with him, I said yes. I said it without reservation, without talking to my wife, and without asking too much about what the work actually entailed.

  Wayne earned his reputation. I trusted him, implicitly. After writing a novel with him, I trust him more.

  He sent me an advance copy of his 15th Jesse McDermitt novel, Rising Water. My task was to get to know two characters featured in the book (DJ Martin and Jerry Snyder) then to spin up some adventures for the both of them, which he and I would talk about.

  I had no trouble. Many authors keep a collection of notes, or a file, or a notepad in their night stand, filled with unexplored plots and half-finished ideas which are nearly indistinguishable from the ravings of a lunatic. I send text messages to myself with ideas that usually come to me in the shower or while driving. If a person were to gain unimpeded access to these rambling, incoherent messages, I would be in a straitjacket.

  Many of my ideas germinate from longform magazine articles. GQ, The Baffler, New Republic—I’m a junkie for them. Especially stories about people fighting back against, or suffering under, corporate abuses. The germination of Wayward Sons came from a mish-mash of articles about Big Pharma’s manipulation of researchers, patent laws (if you’re curious, research Allergan and the Saint Regis Mohawk tribe), and drug prices.

  That last one—pricing—is a real trip. Big Pharma regularly participates in a practice the industry calls salami slicing. Briefly, salami slicing means placing diseases into smaller and more nebulous categories until the drug used to treat a particular cluster of symptoms is given orphan status. By federal law, once a drug achieves orphan status, the red tape is unwound and a drug which previously sold for twenty bucks now costs multiple thousands of dollars when used for its newly “discovered” treatment.

  Salami slicing is profit-seeking of the worst kind, and is becoming increasingly popular among an industry setting new profit records every year—profits made from the desperation of the sick and dying, mind you. The practice is emblematic of an industry that cares little about its moral obligations in the face of leveraging as much gross income from people as possible.

  DJ was a no-brainer for a plot that revolves around the strong exploiting the weak. He’s untamed and idealistic. Getting him fired up over a little girl being poisoned by corporate malfeasance was easy. Jerry, with his backstory, was a little more complicated, but his willingness to leave behind a born-rich life to join the USAF, and later become a Newport Beach PD detective, evidenced a strong moral compass.

  Given those elements, Wayward Sons sprouted in 2019 and grew over 2020.