Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1)
Page 1
NOTHING SACRED
NOTHING SACRED
DOUGLAS WICKARD
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright 2014 Douglas Wickard
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of Douglas Wickard.
Books by Douglas Wickard
The Sami Saxton Series
A Perfect Husband
A Perfect Setup
Perfect (12.25.14)
The Dan Hammer FBI Series
Nothing Sacred
Encounter
~ Early Praise for NOTHING SACRED ~
★★★★★ “…superb, chilling, visceral, raw…a masterpiece. Wickard deserves a place amongst the key writers of suspenseful thrilling crime writing.”
Helen White, Goodreads Review
★★★★★ “NOTHING SACRED is the enthralling, emotionally charged and evocative prequel to [Wickard’s] powerful thriller ENCOUNTER. It will captivate, unsettle, evoke deep and passionate feelings and haunt you long after the final page is read.”
Pat O’Meara, Goodreads Review
★★★★★ “…Mr. Wickard is a master at scene setting.
All the senses are used when a new scene is revealed.”
Dana Griffin, Author of COERCED and THE COVER UP
★★★★ “Mr. Wickard is fast making his place in history as one of THE best authors out there.”
Melanie Adkins ~ Have You Heard My Book Reviews
ENCOUNTER
★★★★★ “Once again, a tour-de-force from Mr. Wickard.”
Helen White, Amazon Review
“Sexy, hot & heart-pounding, this thriller will turn you inside out.”
Melanie Adkins ~ Have You Heard Book Reviews
A PERFECT HUSBAND
“Up there with Jonathon Kellerman…” Fleur Smithwick,
Author of HOW TO MAKE A FRIEND
A PERFECT SETUP
“Wickard surpasses Jeffery Deaver…” ★★★★★
Nancy Silk, Amazon Review
WARNING
NOTHING SACRED contains graphic descriptions
that may be offensive and unsuitable for some readers.
Parental discretion is advised.
strike
“You yourselves are your last hope.”
“Possessing the Secret of Joy”
~ Alice Walker
June 14, 2007
Thursday
Citadel Mall
Charleston, South Carolina
1
Choosing?
I love choosing.
Having a choice is one of the benefits I derive for this little hobby of mine. That and cleaning the environment of filth. No really, I have an unnatural sense of cleanliness. To the point of being obsessive, some people might think. I’ll give you an example. I carry razor blades with me to scrape off all those annoying pieces of sticky paper plastered on everything; display boards, bathroom stalls… actually, anywhere messy pigs migrate and have the incessant need to vandalize. Back before the neurotic use of cell phones, I’d even clean off public telephones. In case of an emergency and I needed to use one, (God forbid) the phone had to be spotless. Bacteria free and purely pristine. Some people look at me strangely. They stare. They think I have a problem. I don’t. I just prefer it that way. Clean and tidy.
No one assigned me this position. I took it. Like most things in my life. Not to mention the fact that I really enjoy getting what I want, when I want it. Better yet, that incredible high I achieve in getting away with it. Kind of like playing God. That’s an added bonus.
A dividend.
The mall is one of my favorite places to hang out. To “choose” from, that is. It’s big and spacious with plenty of people milling about, roaming in-and-out of brand name stores, spending all their hard earned cash. I stay pretty inconspicuous with all the foot traffic. Not that you would notice anything different about me from the next person. You wouldn’t. Trust me. Well, you might think I’m attractive. Give me a second glance, a look, maybe even… choose me.
I’ve got my eye on a girl. I’ve been watching her really close. Her boyfriend’s been calling her “Angie.” Of course, I immediately think of Mick Jagger!
“Angie, Angie, when will those clouds all disappear…”
But, I’m running out of time, checking my watch a little too frequently, waiting to make my move. I can’t afford to be careless. Nobody can ever afford to be careless. Everything according to plan. Just like the last time. They still haven’t found the body. I doubt they ever will. That’s how good I am. That stupid slut never knew what hit her.
Beautiful, Angie…
Her boyfriend is walking in my direction. He moves toward me, a loaded spring in each step. She follows close behind him like a dizzy puppy, texting on her cell phone. Dainty, pretty fingers fly over the miniature keyboard in a heated frenzy. They’re eating a disgusting pretzel, dipping it into some gooey orange sauce and feeding it to one another. Taking pictures, laughing, posting on Facebook, Twitter or some other social media outlet. How cute. I play cool and continue sipping on my coffee. I don’t pay them the slightest bit of attention. They sit down next to me on the wooden bench. Her arm brushes up against me. Accidentally. I almost drop my Styrofoam cup. Her sweater is tight, cottony; her nipples stand erect, playing hide-and-seek through the fabric. Her jeans are faded, that “washed-a-thousand-times” blue. A patch is sewn on her ass that reads: “DON’T GO THERE.” I can’t help but be offended, because that is precisely what I did. I went there. And everybody else, too. Another year, and she’ll be ruined. A whore for sure.
“Sor-ry,” she coos with that sweet, saccharine southern drawl.
I look the other way. I bite at my upper lip.
I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Excuse me, do you have the time?” her boyfriend asks. They compete for the thickest accent. She wins. Hands down. He looks like he just walked off the set of a Steven Spielberg movie. You know the type. All American, wispy brown hair, athletic. Already has facial hair. He wears braces to correct an overbite. A capital “F” is sewn with confidence on the front of his athletic jersey. Does it stand for varsity football? Or “fucker?” I bet he has a nice, big cock. Everything overdeveloped. Shows off in the shower after gym class, giving less fortunate boys a complex. Yeah, you definitely know the type.
I extend my arm in their direction, advertising my expensive Rolex wristwatch. I graze my hand up against Angie…
Beautiful Angie…
I don’t speak. I just act polite and smile.
He thanks me as they jump up and leave their trash behind. That really pisses me off. Filthy pigs! I snatch up the paper napkin coated with mustard or cheese and walk to the trashcan. I don’t take my eyes off her. Not for one second. I pitch the pig’s trash in the receptacle, take a hand sanitizer cloth from my pocket and follow them. Slowly. Her walk attracts the attention of several people, predominately older men. Their heads turn as she passes by. She is a looker. And to tell you the truth, I don’t blame them.
That’s why I chose her.
I must act quickly now.
“Wait for me,” I hear him say as he enters the men’s restroom.
“No way! I’m coming with you.”
Smart girl. But not smart enough.
She follows him into the bathroom. An elde
rly man exits with the aid of a cane. He shakes his head in disapproval before disappearing into a sea of shoppers. I stand still. I wait for the right moment. I saunter into a Barnes & Noble Bookstore and pick up the latest bestseller. Interesting. I choose James Patterson. A romance novel. He’s changing genres. I chuckle as I place the book back into the bin. I’m not an avid reader of the genre.
Her boyfriend exits the restroom and positions himself as guard at the door. Such gallantry. After a few seconds, she exits. She wipes her hands on her ass and pushes back light, curly hair across her shoulders. It falls in perfect ringlets to her waist. They kiss and grab at each other’s hands. Lovebirds. She must be what? All of thirteen. He looks older, at least seventeen. And I can tell Angie isn’t the first girl he’s ruined. He has that cocky stride of a winner. A peacock practicing his skills, perfecting his lines, sharpening his tool for the next young thing that falls prey to his desires.
It’s up to me now. I must save her before he spoils her. Ruins her untouched excellence. And, I must be quick about it. I hurry across the polished tile floor toward the main exit. I wave goodbye to the pimply-faced barista at Starbucks who made my coffee. My café latte. See? Nobody knows. Nobody suspects. I pass by the miniature police station located at the mall entrance. I smile at the nice black lady sitting behind the desk browsing through a magazine. She nods her head in my direction.
The glass doors open automatically. A gentle, cool breeze invigorates me. I take advantage of the last hint of cold weather and take a deep rejuvenating breath. The warmth from the sun surrenders to dusk. Magenta ribbons streak across a pale blue sky.
I keep a keen eye on the two of them as they stumble over each other’s hungry advances. They head down a row of parked cars. He unlocks her side first. Always a gentleman. He has a jeep.
He would have a jeep!
I quicken my pace two rows over, grabbing at the bottom of my coat pocket for keys, checking over my shoulder for fear I might lose them. I unlock the door to my rental car and slide in. I lower the window to dispel the heat. Engines turn over. I watch through the tinted glass of my windshield. I remove my sunglasses to get a better view. No obstructions.
My plan is in place. On the passenger seat beside me, positioned in plain view, is my freedom. My tools, encased in orderly fashion at the bottom of a small, nondescript wooden box. My exquisite instruments. I run my hand over the top of the box. Folded neatly beneath the box is the dress she will wear. The cotton smock, white like the virgin she still is. It will soon turn red from the blood she will spill. For her sins. My soul will then be cleansed. Then and only then.
My small sacrifice.
I put the car in reverse and back out of my tight parking space. Guiding the automatic gear shift into drive, I turn the steering wheel in their direction.
The sacred ritual will take place at sunset.
You want to know why? Because I planned it that way.
June 14, 2007
Thursday
6:22 PM
2
Every Thursday evening, like clockwork, George Madden chauffeured Edna into Charleston for her weekly prayer meeting. They left early, while it was still light out because George suffered from terrible night blindness. He’d been to the doctor. But, what could the freakin’ doctor do for night blindness? Edna complained. She hated driving. She hated just about anything having to do with an automobile. Then again, Edna complained pretty much about everything. Twenty-two years of marriage. Martial bliss, George called it. Oh well, he’d adjusted, or so he kept telling himself. Anyway, about his night blindness. George took the usual precautions. He turned down the rearview mirror to stop the oncoming glare, drove on well-lit roads, and tried using streets with those sparkle-bumps on the divider. What else? Oh yeah, he wore glasses. He damn well better. His vision wasn’t so good any more.
It was a stupid saying, but Edna said it anyway. “George, ya’ got Coke bottles for glasses.” They kind of snickered, not because it was funny or anything, but because she’d been telling him that for some time now. Kind of nostalgic. Even with all the precautions in place that night, nothing was gonna prepare George’s old eyes for the sight they were about to behold.
Edna and George lived about twenty miles outside Charleston in a little community known as Goose Creek. It was a quiet place. Lots of sprawling, two-level rental complexes equipped with tennis courts, swimming pools and nicely manicured lawns. The developers wanted the tenants to feel like they were getting something for their money. They enjoyed it all right. Anyway, they were driving into the City, passing by the usual scenery – strip malls, movie theaters and restaurants. George remembered Edna saying something about wanting to try a new fast food joint that just recently popped up. A movie star had opened up a whole slew of them. Edna sure enjoyed her movie stars. She read all about them in one of those supermarket gossip magazines. The Globe. The Enquirer. George remembered saying something like, “Yeah, yeah,” because Edna also loved eating. Out. She used to be one hell of a cook back when the kids were home. Now those pots and pans just hung above the stove and collected dust. Money flew right out the window on a account of them eating out every night.
George dropped Edna off at the church located on Meeting Street, not far from the University. He pecked at her cheek and watched her skedaddle across the concrete pavement to the entrance of The Circular Congregation Church. Her big ass created tidal waves underneath her flowery, floor-length skirt. It looked more like a tent to George.
Oh Edna, when did you get to be so… big?
George was proud to mention, perhaps even brag a bit, that he’d maintained his same weight since being discharged from the military back in the late sixties.
Seeing Edna’s large ass wiggle like a Jell-O mold got George’s blood going.
George, why don’t you treat yourself tonight and go out to that Pussy Place out on Old Towne Road?
Entrance was dirt cheap. Besides, why not? Won’t be long before George’s ass was seated in a booth at some chain restaurant watching Edna stuff her fat face anyway.
Oh, hell yeah, that’s what I’ll do!
Before George could count to three, that old Buick Regal seemed to have a mind all its own and was steering itself right over Memorial Bridge. Yep, tonight George was going in search of a little action.
On the radio, George was listening to that song… “If I can’t have you, I don’t want nobody baby, if I can’t have you…” … just singing along as he drove, having himself one hell of a good time. It was getting darker though and Old Towne Road had a stretch of highway up ahead that was pretty isolated. Hell, somebody could get lost out here if they weren’t paying attention. There weren’t a lot of street lights either. Darkness was landing on George faster than a Boeing 747. He started getting a little jumpy. He sat upright in his seat and adjusted his glasses. He flicked down the rearview mirror and prayed for a speck of white, a dot of relief. Some kind of light. Pink neon sure would be nice. What was the name of that place? “Pink Pussy?” Or maybe “Pussy Palace?” Hell, he knew it had pussy in it. Off the record, George didn’t want anybody getting the wrong idea. He didn’t do this a lot. Not every day, anyway. Sometimes, he even missed a week or two. Sometimes.
A neon sign came blasting into view right in the nick of time. A blessing. The place was called “Silk Stockings.” If he hadn’t come upon it soon, he was about ready to do a u-turn and head right straight back to Edna. Mother. Guilt. He hated it. But forget about all that now. He was here! Soon he’d be lost in a lush oasis of luscious smelling booty before he could count to ten.
He parked the Buick in the rear, next to a reeking dipsey-dumpster. Smelled like shit, but he preferred it. He didn’t like flashing his dirty laundry around. Besides, it wasn’t nobody’s damn business anyway. He had yet to witness somebody he knew out here. Strange, huh? And, if he did, what would they have on him? Nothing! So fuck ‘em! That’s what he would say. Whooo hooo! George was in a mood tonight! Watch out “Pussy Pa
lace,” or whatever the hell the name was.
He paid his money at the door and strolled into the place like he owned it. In the background, the DJ Herb was talking shit, as usual.
“For your credit card, you can have a private lap dance with Candy Cane in the Champagne Lounge…”
George liked Candy. She was nice and all, but for a hundred bucks he wanted something more than a lap dance. Besides, he played it safe. He left all his credit cards at home. Just in case the urge fell upon him. He got into trouble once with that. Never again. Instead, he moseyed up to the bar.
The bartender swiveled a napkin in front of him. “How’s it goin’ George?”
A lot of really nice people worked here. Sonny was one of them. “Can’t complain, can’t complain.”
“Usual?”
“Damn, you’re good. For somebody who don’t come in here a whole hell of a lot, you sure do have a good memory.”