by Nick Thacker
Harvey Bennett Mysteries
Books 4-6
Nick Thacker
Copyright © 2014-2017 by Nick Thacker, Turtleshell Press
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013922337
First Printing, 2014
Nick Thacker Colorado Springs, CO
www.NickThacker.com
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
The Jefferson Legacy
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
The Paradise Key
Prologue
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
The Aryan Agenda
Prologue
1. Jennifer
2. Jennifer
3. Jennifer
4. Sarah
5. Al Jazeera
6. Sarah
7. Rachel
8. Rachel
9. Journal Entry
10. Graham
11. Sarah
12. Rachel
13. Sarah
14. Rap
15. Reggie
16. Ben
17. Reggie
18. Sarah
19. Julie
20. Rachel
21. Rachel
22. Journal Entry
23. Graham
24. Ben
25. Sarah
26. Sarah
27. Rachel
28. Graham
29. Ben
30. Julie
31. Graham
32. Reggie
33. Sarah
34. Graham
35. Reggie
36. Ben
37. Ben
38. Julie
39. Sarah
40. Sarah
41. Reggie
42. Sarah
43. Julie
44. Julie
45. Graham
46. Ben
47. Ben
48. Ben
49. Julie
50. Ben
51. Reggie
52. Graham
53. Ben
54. Ben
55. Reggie
56. Reggie
57. Julie
58. Ben
59. Reggie
60. Ben
61. Julie
62. Sarah
63. Graham
64. Ben
65. Graham
66. Ben
67. Ben
68. Reggie
69. Julie
70. Ben
71. Ben
72. Reggie
73. Sarah
74. Graham
75. Graham
76. Sarah
77. Ben
78. Ben
79. Julie
80. Sarah
81. Reggie
82. Ben
83. Ben
84. Julie
85. Julie
86. Ben
87. Reggie
88. Ben
Epilogue
Afterword
Also by Nick Thacker
About the Author
The Jefferson Legacy
Chapter One
OCTOBER 11, 1809.
THERE’S NOT much time left.
He had to make it. There was no other option, or the fate of the entire republic…
He didn’t want to think about that. He shuddered, and not just because of the cool breeze of late fall that had descended upon the forested path.
Lucius kicked his horse’s side urging it faster through the wind. The wind, it seemed, was his main antagonist tonight. Darkness had settled in hours ago, and yet even the darkness waned against the brisk wind, the two forces battling it out and making Lucius and his poor steed their pawn.
The moonlight from the waxing sliver wasn’t much of an ally, offering nothing but thin wisps of light that were immediat
ely consumed by the deeper shadows as he raced on.
Hohenwald was a mere four miles away, close enough he thought he could already smell the wood-burning stoves and ovens of late-night workmen and their families. It was an illusion, a smell burned into his mind from years of stoking a late-night blaze as the incantations began. It brought him back, to a time when this night was a mere speculation, nothing more than a dream and the barest of plans.
And yet he was still far enough that he knew the enemy was closer. They would reach the destination first, before he could alert their target. The target would be caught off guard, perhaps for the first time in a decade. Sleeping soundly, unassuming, the target would certainly be unable to rouse, fend off the attack, and eliminate the threat.
Lucius’ orders still stood, however. He would ride.
He kicked his steed’s sides again, but felt no increase in its speed. Instead of cursing, he sniffed a deep, sharp breath through his nostrils. The air hit the top of his palate and forced his eyes open. It was crisp, laced with the beautiful smell of pine and earth, yet it seemed to also carry the dismay of being too late. He was going too slow, and he wasn’t going to make it in time. It wasn’t the horse’s fault, nor was it his own. The Society had sounded the alarm, yet it had taken over an hour to put a plan in place.
Over an hour for a plan that had already existed. This was the downside of government by committee, Lucius knew. This was the downside of not remaining lean and nimble. He had urged his leaders to make the call, and to do it with haste, but the time it had taken to gather and vote was going to be the difference between life and death.
It meant life or death for Lucius’ target, certainly. Possibly for others, as well. Possibly for the nation itself.
Possibly for Lucius himself.
He gritted his teeth and dove forward over the final gentle crest that led into the village of Hohenwald. Nothing but a collection of small houses and a town square, the village wasn’t even Lucius’ destination. His target lay sleeping in an inn along the route to Hohenwald, just east of town. There the proprietor, Griner, operated the small establishment and sold whiskey to the Indians, whose land backed up to his property.
All of this had been in the report given to Lucius’ leaders. They had mulled over it, and the greater mission, as if it had been the first time anyone had heard of such a thing. Lucius had stood by, calmly biding his time, until he knew they were running out of time. He couldn’t understand why they were hesitant — didn’t they understand that the fate of the nation was in their hands?
So he had set out, knowing that his target would be at Griner’s Stand hours before he would arrive. Hours to wait, think, and ponder. Hours to wonder, and worry.
Hours to sleep, soundly or otherwise, until either Lucius or the enemy arrived, to seal the fate of the young nation once and for all.
Chapter Two
OCTOBER 11, 1809.
GRINER’S STAND was less than a half-mile away, and for the first time since Lucius had left, he could see it with his own eyes. No more speculation, no more running through the details in his mind’s eye. He could see it, and he knew it was his final destination.
Griner’s Stand sat on the edge of Indian territory, either by design — Griner himself was known as a high-quality moonshiner — or by accident. Perhaps Griner had hopes to use his proximity to argue against the Indians as the young nation continued to expand its own territory, or perhaps Griner was sympathetic to the native population.
None of that mattered to Lucius. His horse, beaten and sweaty, had slowed to a jog a quarter-mile ago and he hadn’t tried to force it along. It had been a long, arduous journey, but the end was in sight.
The first of the matching cabins came into view to Lucius’ left. The Natchez Trace that Lucius had been following descended downward again, heading toward a still out-of-sight river. The path wound around a few trees, admitting its inferiority to the age-old forest inhabitants.
The trees alone could attest to the age of this long stretch of road. They stood as silent sentinels for generations before even the game and wildlife used this intra-mountain route through the ridge. When the American Indians later explored and conquered the area, they assumed ownership of the route and further flattened it beneath their feet.
Today, Lucius had taken the same exact winding route through the forest, trusting the feet of previous generations to get him to his destination, and they had not let him down. The second of the right-angled cabins swung into view, separated by the narrow dog run between the buildings, and he could see the smaller kitchen building farther back on the land.
A lone horse had been tied to a post outside this second cabin, and Lucius knew it belonged to his target. The innkeeper maintained a small barn and a few horses elsewhere on the property, but there was no barn in Lucius’ immediate view. The target must have arrived and tied up promptly, not bothering to house his mare for the night.
In his mind, the target was likely not concerned with bunking down tightly. The stay would be for less than a full night, coming in late and leaving early the next morning. Long enough to fulfill orders, and short enough that bedding down a horse for the night wasn’t worth the trouble.
The horse neighed and scuffed in the distance. Lucius eyed it as he jogged his own horse in, trying to get a feel for the situation. He couldn’t see much beyond the direct perimeter of the house; the Natchez wound down to the front of the first cabin and then back out through the trees, but it was hardly a large road. The weak moonlight did nothing to make the area feel more open, and Lucius suddenly felt himself strangely vulnerable.
He wanted to get inside, to stoke the fire in one of the cabins’ chimneys, and take his boots off and rest. He wanted to throw his own steed’s rope over the post and let it graze for the night while he slept, earning back the hours he’d spent with his eyes glued to the hard-packed dirt. He wanted to stretch out, his legs pulled back together for once in the past week, and just… be. He didn’t want to play the role he had been playing for so long, since he had grown from a boy to a man to a man with a purpose.
But, like usual, he pushed those thoughts back down and ignored them. Self-discipline was a nasty habit, but it was a true habit. He had honed his perception of himself just as he had honed his perception of the world, and it had so far provided him with the edge he needed to ascend the ranks of his organization far faster than anyone his age.
Self-discipline was a virtue, he knew. Yet Lucius often felt it was a curse, burdening him with knowledge he didn’t want to carry, with the lifestyle he never wanted to lead, and with the drive toward a goal he could never admit outside his closest circles.
He had led a life of depravity, of celibacy and singularity. A man intently focused on his sole purpose, never erring from the path of righteousness he knew would save the republic. He had bought it so long ago, when he was barely old enough to work the fields, but he wanted nothing more than to not have to work the fields.
He’d run away from home and joined the Society, promised by the leaders riches and importance the longer he committed to the cause. Yet it hadn’t been either the money or the status that he’d eventually committed to. He cared not for the social posterity or friendship circles he’d been brought into, and he certainly didn’t want to be known for this or that in his local community, as others in the organization desired for themselves. And he didn’t even care that to leave the organization, at his level, would mean death.
No, he hadn’t stayed in the Society for any of those reasons. He had stayed because of a simple, unfortunate truth.
He had stayed because he knew the truth.
Chapter Three
OCTOBER 11, 1809.
LUCIUS FORCED HIS EYES OPEN again and guided his horse down the path that connected the Natchez Trace with Griner’s cabins. It was a rocky, horrible trail, and he wondered if Griner had ever taken the time to maintain it. This was an estate likely devoid of slaves, so Lucius figured Griner or his wife would h
ave been the ones to do it. Perhaps they had many visitors to keep them busy inside, or Griner’s whiskey operation was doing far better than Lucius’ report had indicated and they cared little for the integrity of their small estate.
Lucius made it to the tree line that marked off Griner’s property and stopped. He sniffed the air again, an old trick a farm hand had taught him years ago. It didn’t help much to know the smell of a place, but somehow sniffing the air forced his other senses to attention, ready to take in anything out of the ordinary.
He couldn’t believe he was the only one here. He’d been adamant that there wouldn’t be enough time, and his superiors had almost gotten angry with his argumentative tone. He had convinced himself that he was not going to be alone, or if he was, it would be because the enemy had beaten him here and the job was already finished.
There were no lights on to destroy the moonlight, and he could see clearly into the open area of Griner’s Stand. The two cabins now dwarfed the circle of grass, but they were in turn dwarfed by the massive pines surrounding the property. He took in the details of the cabin. Nothing elaborate, just a simple utilitarian home with a replicate addition. Two matching buildings connected by a dog run, with a kitchen and barn behind. A small field, unplanted but tilled into rows. The barn, now in sight, barely larger than the cabins.
In all, a moderate estate for a family. Something that could provide a decent revenue stream if it were on a main route, like the Trace. It helped that it was known, both by locals and travelers. The Natchez Trace was one of the few routes that led from the North to the harbors and ports of faraway cities, and it was the only direct route.
Lucius had traveled along it before, but only once. His first impression had been somewhat of a disappointment. The underwhelming width of the trail made it difficult, if not impossible, to travel with more than a horse in some spots, and sections of the route had been in such disrepair that he’d had to guide his horse through the trees to the side of the actual trail for a stretch.
Not to mention the banditry he’d encountered. He’d found two murdered bodies the first time, ditched along the side in a trench, their purses and good clothing removed and stolen. He’d felt disgusted and nearly carried on, ignoring the bodies, but dug the graves anyway and presided over the two funerals with the obligatory care and attention his organization had required.
Later on the route he’d come across a family — a man and woman and small child — who had been robbed and beaten. The child was near death, choking and coughing in the heavy winter air, and the father seemed nearly gone as well, but the mother had urged his help. He obliged, guiding them to a village he knew about to the west.