For Virgil.
Copyright and Legal Notice: This publication is protected under the US Copyright Act of 1976 and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws, and all rights are reserved, including resale rights.
Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if we use one of these terms. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval) without permission in writing from the author.
First ebook edition © 2012.
For all permissions, please contact the author at:
mail to: [email protected]
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead (unless explicitly noted) is merely coincidental. Copyright © 2012 Christopher Smith. All rights reserved worldwide.
http://www.christophersmithbooks.com
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For their help with this book, the author is particularly grateful to Erich Kaiser, his parents Ross Smith and Ann Smith, Margaret Nagle, J. Carson Black, Kate Cady, Jim Ashley, Kimberly Llewellyn, Tyler and Stacy Thiede, Martine Bound, Kevin Brockus, Laura Baumgardner, Ellen Beck, Jackie Kennedy, Judi Warrington, David B. Nemeth, Mary Ravida, Trish Luckett, Angel Davis, Anna Dobson, his Facebook family of friends, the team at Odyl, his friends at the Bangor Daily News and at UMaine, Sandy Phippen, Debra McCann, Diane Cormier, Lisa Smith, Deborah Rogers, Howard Segal, Brandi Doane and his amazing accountant and financial advisor, Jaime Berube. To all of you, I appreciate it.
The author also would like to thank his readers for their encouragement, patience and support. You are the first and last reason for every early morning and late night. Every book is written with you in mind. I’ll see you on Facebook.
Thank you.
Books by Christopher Smith
In the United States
Fifth Avenue Series
Fifth Avenue: Book One
Running of the Bulls: Book Two
From Manhattan with Love: Novella Three
The Fifth Avenue Series (Box Set)
A Rush to Violence
From Manhattan with Revenge
From Manhattan with Love and Revenge (Box Set)
Bullied Series
Bullied: Book One
Revenge: Book Two
Witch: Book Three
War: Book Four
The Complete Bullied Series
Stand-Alone Books
You Only Die Twice
In the United Kingdom
Fifth Avenue Series
Fifth Avenue: Book One
Running of the Bulls: Book Two
From Manhattan with Love: Novella Three
The Fifth Avenue Series (Box Set)
A Rush to Violence
From Manhattan with Revenge
From Manhattan with Love and Revenge (Box Set)
Bullied Series
Bullied: Book One
Revenge: Book Two
Witch: Book Three
War: Book Four
The Complete Bullied Series
Stand-Alone Books
You Only Die Twice
Also available in Germany, France, Italy, Spain, Brazil, Canada, India and Japan.
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Epilogue
Excerpt: “A Rush to Violence”
Excerpt: “From Manhattan with Revenge”
Psychopath: A person suffering from chronic mental disorder with abnormal or violent social behavior.
Serial killer: An individual who has killed three or more people over a period of more than a month, with down time (a “cooling off period”) between the murders, and whose motivation for killing is usually based on psychological gratification.
Fanatic: A peron with an extreme and uncritical enthusiasm or zeal, as in religion or politics.
“I was only following God’s orders.” ―Joseph Kallinger, who murdered three people and tortured four families along with his 13-year-old son Michael.
“I believe the only way to reform people is to kill them.” ―Carl Panzram, who committed twenty-two murders and sodomized over one thousand males.
“Whoever, then, thinks that he understands the Holy Scriptures, or any part of them, but puts such an interpretation upon them as does not tend to build up this twofold love of God and our neighbor, does not yet understand them as he ought.”
― Saint Augustine of Hippo
“The Bible is a wonderful source of inspiration for those who don't understand it.”
― George Santayana
YOU ONL
Y DIE TWICE
A Thriller
By Christopher Smith
CHAPTER ONE
At first, all she was aware of was a cold wetness against her cheek and explosions of light along the periphery of her vision. She could hear someone talking to her―a man―but she couldn’t understand what he was saying.
She felt her body being jolted. Kicked. Punched.
Her head hurt.
There was blood in her mouth. And something else. Something thick and round, which made it difficult for her to breathe.
Her left leg began to twitch.
The flashes of light continued until the pain in her head became too much for her to bear.
Something was shoved into her right hand. She felt her fingers being closed around it and then, somehow, the object was attached to her hand.
She wondered what it was. She wondered where she was. Had she died again? Or was she about to die again?
She knew all about death.
She faced it before, and she fell deep into its hole.
Was she here again?
She passed out and went into a light of her own.
CHAP
TER TWO
When she woke again, Cheryl Dunning blinked and though her head was still thick and her eyesight still cloudy, she was able to process that the darkness she now saw had nothing to do with death or being unconscious, but everything to do with the fact that it was night.
She was outside and she was alive, but where was she? How did she get here? She tried to make sense of it, tried to remember what events led her to this, but she couldn’t rem
ember anything.
Her mind was blank.
She needed to leave, get home. But where was home?
She tried to raise her head, but the effort was excruciating and she realized that she couldn’t. She put her left hand beneath her breast and tried to push herself up, but she cried out in pain and slumped back onto the ground.
She wasn’t able to move. At least not now. Instinct kicked in. That part of her that could still reason realized that she might have broken a bone or, worse, several bones. She needed to be careful. It felt as if someone had pummeled her.
As she lay there, it came to her that she was on a moist forest floor. She could smell damp timber, the rot of whatever lay beneath her, and she was aware that it was raining. Water tapped against the side of her cheek and soaked her clothes. It wasn’t a heavy rain, but it was steady, and she was alert enough to know that her situation was dire.
She was alone and exposed to the elements in some unknown woods. Her thoughts turned to the wild animals she knew were around her. Circling her. Smelling her. Wanting to tear her apart and eat her. The fear she felt at that moment made her want to get up and run, but her body wasn’t having it. Something was wrong with her head. It wouldn’t stop throbbing. She felt as if it had been kicked.
And so she lay there, a prisoner to whatever had happened to her. She listened to the night and occasionally heard rustling sounds in the woods. What would prey on her tonight? Something would. She felt utterly without hope and knew that she’d be dead before she had the chance to help herself.
She closed her eyes. She tried to remember her life, but there was no life to remember. It was as if someone had erased it from her mind and left in its place a pain she had never before experienced. It consumed her before and it did so again.
She wavered on the precipice of that pain, and then she gave herself over to it and slipped into unconsciousness.
CHAPT
ER THREE
Morning came and with it, the end of the rain.
Cheryl Dunning opened her eyes, and this time she could see clearly. There was no fog, no haze, just clarity. Her body still ached, but the pain wasn’t excruciating. For a moment, the idea that she’d made it through the night alive gave her back the hope she lost the night before.
With one side of her face planted on the wet ground, she looked around and saw that she was in a wooded area. A forest. Above her was a canopy of sunlit trees, from the fiery blaze of maples being seduced by autumn’s crisp touch to the evergreens that would challenge the pending winter, stare it down and see it through to spring. It was late September in Maine, pine needles were the carpet on which she lay, and she was chilled to her core.
She also was thirsty. Her mouth was caked with the coppery taste of dried blood and she wished she was near a water source, if only so she could rinse out her mouth.
How had she gotten here? She closed her eyes, thought back hard, and the pieces of a puzzle that was lost to her yesterday started to form.
Her last memory was spending time with her friend Patty at their favorite local bar, The Grind, doing shots to celebrate Patty’s thirtieth birthday, which she called a landmark event because she said she never thought she’d make it to twenty-seven. Not with her luck.
Cheryl rarely drank, but Patty coaxed her into joining her because it was her birthday. Not wanting to spoil her friend’s fun, Cheryl went along with the celebration because Patty was a lifelong friend and after all she had been through in this town―and all she had done for Cheryl many years ago, when she died the first time―she deserved a fun night out. Together, they did several shots of tequila even though Cheryl knew she’d pay for it the next day.
But not like this. This didn’t make sense. Why was she here? Who brought her here?
She needed to get up. Needed to get out of here. She remained on her stomach and carefully lifted one of her legs behind her. It was fine. She moved her other leg, and though it hurt like hell, it was clear that nothing was broken. She went to lift up her right hand and it was at that moment that she saw the cell phone strapped to it with a rubber band.
Confused, she stared at it.
Then it buzzed to life.
Startled, she lifted her head off the forest floor and some of the pine needles that were stuck to her face tumbled off. With an effort, she sat up, swiped away the rest of the needles with her free hand, and the cell phone buzzed again.
She tore it off and tossed it away. She looked around the forest and could see steam rising up in those areas where the sun made its way through the trees to warm the cool, wet ground. She felt as if she was being watched. She listened and heard leaves falling from the maple and birch trees. A light breeze touched her back.
And the phone buzzed again, vibrating just ahead of her on the ground. It seemed to tremble, not unlike she was now.
And Cheryl Dunning of Bangor, Maine, who for ten years had worked as an underpaid secretary in the English Department at the University of Maine and who had never made it out of college for reasons only few knew because of the deep shame that had crippled her for years, knew she was in worse trouble than she ever imagined.
CHAP
TER FOUR
It was curiosity that pulled her in.
Moving through the pain, she reached out a hand to grab the phone and when she did, she saw the cuts and bruises on her forearm, which made her pull back as her stomach sank with worry.
What did the rest of her look like? She was still in her bar clothes. A tight white T-shirt that showed off her curves, tight blue jeans she picked up for seven dollars at the bargain bin at The Gap, and boots that Patty said were made “for getting any man you want. And you need a man, Cheryl. God, do you ever. It’s been, like, forever since you dated someone. At the very least, those boots with those heels should get you in the back seat of someone’s car. And praise Jesus for that.”
As if that’s what Cheryl was seeking. She hadn’t been with anyone since that night and Patty knew why. She knew Cheryl was emotionally scarred, but Patty had suffered her own troubles and knew that life nevertheless had to move forward.
“There are two things you can do, Cheryl,” Patty once said. “You can live in your past and die by it. Or you can let your past inform your present so you can have some semblance of a future. That’s therapist talk, but it’s true. Your past won’t go away, but you can do your best to learn from it and move forward.”
Over the years, other lectures came, which Cheryl tolerated because she knew her friend was just worried about her. But after what happened to Cheryl during her junior year in college, which is the reason she never finished college, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be with a man again. Not after what she went through.
She wondered about the boots and their heels. If she had to run, how would she manage to do so with these on her feet? The idea of it worried her almost as much as that phone, the surface of which now gleamed because it had captured a piece of the sun and was tossing it back toward the sky.
She went for it and grabbed it. She turned it over in her hands and nearly screamed when it vibrated again, which confirmed her belief that somewhere in these woods, someone was watching her. Toying with her. She didn’t understand why, but someone was nearby and given her current condition, it was clear that they either planned to hurt her more than they already had, or they were going to kill her.
Why?
She had no idea why. Maybe there wasn’t a “why.” Maybe it just was, particularly if she was dealing with madness, which she’d dealt with before.
She wished she could remember more of what happened last night. Did someone slip something into one of their shots when they weren’t looking? And if someone did, who did it? It had been only her and Patty last night, hadn’t it? She didn’t remember speaking to anyone but the bartender, and even that was brief. The Grind had a packed house. He was busy. Whenever she or Patty engaged him, it was just to order another round.
She was thinking of Patty and wonde
ring where she was when the phone vibrated again in her hand. It was an iPhone, dented on its side, scratched on its surface, but one of the newer models. She had one herself, an older version, so at least she was familiar with how to use it.
She pressed the button below the screen and saw that while there were no voice messages, there were eight text messages. She clicked on the icon and read the first. “You have no ability to make a call. You have no ability to send a text. Maps have been disabled. Tracking has been disabled. Browser access has been disabled. Are we clear? This phone has been hacked and it serves as my line of contact to you. Here’s your first directive. Select the iPhotos icon and look through the photos.” She went through the other seven messages and they all said the same thing, though the last one was more urgent. “Select the iPhotos icon, Cheryl. Do it now. Don’t anger me.”
Whoever it was knew her name. How did they know her name? Did she know this person?
The phone buzzed again and another text appeared on the screen. She opened it. “I really don’t want to kill you, Cheryl. At least not now. So, open the fucking icon.”
Nervously, she clicked out of the text window and selected iPhotos. What she saw when the application opened was a series of events. The photos began at The Grind. The quality was grainy, as if no flash was used, which made sense because people would have noticed a flash, including her and Patty.
You Only Die Twice Page 1