Previous accolades for Richard Satterlie’s
SOMETHING BAD:
“SOMETHING BAD has come back to Boyston is an enticing thriller that will have the audience pondering how Thibideaux accomplishes his deeds and just who is the Organization that does not allow direct murder, but accepts indirect homicides. The story line is fast-paced with fascinating subplots like Gabe’s attraction to the married pregnant Deena Lee and the trio investigating Thibideaux. Although the Organization is not explained much beyond some field rules for its “recruiters”, fans will appreciate Richard Satterlie’s entertaining suspense filled tale.”
—Harriet Klausner
“There is a disturbing feeling underlying this entire story—an all-pervasive creepy atmosphere … one that creates a very palpable sense of dread. Its terror is one that is likely to stay with you long after you have finished reading.”
—Steve Mazey, The Eternal Night
DEDICATION:
For Alison, Jake, Erin, and Tricia,
and to my brothers, Dave and Bob.
Copyright
Published 2008 by Medallion Press, Inc.
The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO
is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 2008 by Richard Satterlie
Cover Model: Sara Mock
Cover Illustration by Adam Mock
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro
ISBN# 978-1-605-42820-8
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
Thanks to Tricia and Alison for their critical reading of the story in its various drafts, and to Stacy M. for a critical read of the final version. Helen and Kerry of Medallion Press have been fantastic throughout the editing and production process. Finally I’d like to thank everyone at the Absolute Write Water Cooler for their help and encouragement, including Uncle Jim, Ray, Kevin, William, Teddy, Rob (both of you), and all of the other guys; Trish, Maryn, Kathy, Sass, Cath, Jay, Elaine, Kristie, and all of the other girls.
Table of Contents
Previous accolades for Richard Satterlie’s
SOMETHING BAD:
Dedication
Copyright
Acknowledgments
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
A Special Presentation of Richard Satterlie’s
SOMETHING BAD
CHAPTER 1
AGNES HAHN IS A DONUT IN A SCONE WORLD.
The entry under her photograph in the high school yearbook was funny when the ink from her classmates’ signatures was still fresh. But as the pages yellowed, the lines lost their humor.
Agnes relaxed and her shoulders slumped with an exhalation. Even when Gert and Ella were still at home, something had always seemed to be missing, like there was a hole in her life. Not the kind of hole a mate or a best friend could fill, but one that was more visceral, more emotional. Yet something seemed tangible in the void. Something around its edges provided random reminders of her vacuity. It had always been subtle, like there was someone she should consult every time she had to make a decision—an inner voice that would provide an objective opinion.
Today, it was strong.
Agnes had been aware of the voice since the day she went to live with her great-aunts. In fact, she couldn’t remember much else before that time. Nothing of her mother or her father. Only the voice. But even then it was capricious, stirring occasional feelings of uneasiness.
It wasn’t there to argue when she decided to go back to work the day after Gert’s funeral. She didn’t have to convince it that it wasn’t too soon, that the animals needed her—the plain ones, the damaged ones, the mean ones, the ones no one wanted to adopt. They all needed her. Not like at home where no one needed her anymore.
Agnes cinched her belt a hole tighter. The jeans hadn’t shrunk as much as she’d thought they would. She was wrong again, keeping her string alive—always assuming shrinkage would produce the perfect fit.
She thrust her arm into the flannel shirt, pushed her other arm into place, and paused as the soft fabric surrounded her. Unbuttoned, the shirttails fell to the middle of each thigh. A medium when a small would do. Cotton head-to-toe, in-to-out. Even the bra. And they could be found without the wires. Cantilever brassieres projected the wrong impression—an exaggerated importance of body parts that somehow had attained a cult status.
Her hands threaded each button through its buttonhole, upward, all the way to the lapels. Others seldom used the final button. Why put one there if it wasn’t intended to be fastened? Like all things in her life, the top button had a purpose.
The weather report blared from the cheap speaker of the bedside clock radio, and Agnes flicked the switch to off as she hurried past. The station broadcast was from Santa Rosa, but the weather this far up the coast was considerably different. The best way to judge was to open the garage door and take a deep breath.
The Honda hummed along Reese Drive without complaint, living up to its rating in the Consumer Guide. Agnes settled into the cool fabric and let her mind run ahead. What was the challenge today? Two more strays brought in? Maybe three? One adoption if luck was working? The real challenge was to find something interesting to say to her co-workers, to stay in a conversation for more than one unscripted turn.
A murmur pulled Agnes’s foot from the gas pedal. She swung her head left, then right. What was it? It sounded like a muffled moan. She slid her foot back to the accelerator. Her system of mental Post-it notes usually didn’t kick in until after morning tea.
A left turn onto the coastal highway and she buzzed her window down all the way. The morning chill invaded the car in company with the smell of the ocean. The short jo
g to the animal shelter turnoff, south of Mendocino, had always invigorated her. She loved the Pacific Ocean, the beauty of the rugged shoreline, the power in the waves that scoured the beaches of all but the largest grains of sand. But lately, even this part of the drive had turned mundane, as if something had tamed the water, turning the brassy surf zone into the humdrum stretches of sand found in the southern part of the state. Baggy. Cotton. No wires.
The car looped into the parking lot like it had a homing device, past the packed column of employee cars, to the last space in the empty second row. It was her spot, by squatter’s rights. She glanced at the other cars in her side mirror. Every morning her co-workers filled the narrow slips, jockeying for the one closest to the building, presumably in the hopes of saving a calorie. And their cars bore the scars of the thrift—their sides were chipped and wrinkled with door dings. It reminded her of the huge SUVs that would run three laps around the Wal-Mart parking lot, waiting to squeeze into tight spaces on the near side of the cart-return corrals.
She closed her window, flipped off the ignition, and pulled out the key.
It’s time.
Agnes spun around, swinging her knees onto the seat. Who said that? No one was in back; no one else was in the car. All windows were up, doors locked. But she had heard a voice.
She turned in the seat and sat still for a moment, but the only sound was her heart, hammering deep in her chest. The dashboard clock turned over to eight, and the simultaneous flash of three changing numbers caught her eye. Three minutes. That’s how far she’d set all of her timepieces ahead of the punch clock in the shelter.
She swiveled out of the car and looked around the parking lot. No one was near. It must have been her imagination. With a deep breath, she checked the top button that pulled her lapels tight to her neck. Another glance and she walked toward the shelter.
A police car waited near the doors, but that wasn’t unusual. The police were her heroes. Around here, they pursued those who abused animals with the same fervor as those who abused other humans or drugs or property. They brought in the lost and the wounded. They cared.
She picked up her pace as she pushed the door open and slipped into the tile and glossy-paint reception room. Janie, the receptionist, didn’t return her greeting.
Two of her heroes stood near the far side of the front counter. Officer Steven Wilson approached, followed by Officer Loreen Didier.
Agnes didn’t smile a lot, but she always smiled for the police. “Good morning, Officer Wilson. Bring in another stray for us?”
Her smile wasn’t returned. The officers positioned themselves on either side of her.
“Miss Hahn, please put your hands on the counter,” Wilson said.
Agnes looked up. Janie’s eyes were large, her lips tight.
“Miss Hahn?” Didier said.
Agnes squinted at Janie. “What’s going on?”
“Put your hands on the counter. Now.”
Each officer grabbed a wrist and forced Agnes’s hands onto the high counter of the reception desk.
Agnes let out a muffled whine. “Why—?”
The cuffs clicked around her left wrist, pinching her skin. She wanted to rub the pressure away, but couldn’t. Wilson bent her left arm around behind her back and forced her forward, into the counter.
Didier pulled on her right wrist, but Agnes resisted, looking the officer in the eyes. Just last week, Officer Didier had brought in a critically wounded beagle mix, peppered with buckshot. Agnes had cried with Didier when the vet gave the prognosis, and they had comforted each other when the euthanasia solution was administered.
“Relax, Miss Hahn,” Didier said. “Don’t make us use force.”
Agnes blinked back tears. “I haven’t done anything wrong.” Her right hand met her left and another click sent a ring of pain around her right wrist.
Hands touched her, down her sides, around her waist, down her thighs. She closed her eyes tight.
Fight.
Her eyes shot open. She looked left, right. Who said that? And why hadn’t anyone responded?
Wilson reached into his pocket and pulled out a laminated card. He turned Agnes to face him. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
Fight what? What is happening?
Wilson’s voice droned, like it was coming through a cheap speaker, strings of words without punctuation. “Do you understand each of these rights I have explained to you? Having these rights in mind, do you wish to talk to us now?”
Agnes looked at Janie again, then at the far doorway where her other co-workers crowded, staring.
“Why? I haven’t done anything.” Her throat constricted, threatening to choke her. She needed to calm down. Maybe it was a joke. Of course it was a joke. She didn’t press the speed limit and she always stopped at yellow lights. What could she possibly be arrested for?
“Do you understand your rights, Miss Hahn?” Wilson grabbed her shoulders and gave her a slight shake. “Miss Hahn? Do you understand your rights?”
But jokes shouldn’t be so painful. And no one was laughing.
“Miss Hahn? Do you—?”
“Yes. Yes, I understand.”
“Good. Come on.” He pulled on her left elbow, directing her toward the front door.
“But why? What did I do?”
Didier stepped alongside the two. She glanced at Janie, then at the far doorway. Her voice was low. “We’ll explain at the station.”
Agnes stopped and twisted her arm from Wilson’s grip. “Tell me now. What did I do?”
“Not now.” Wilson hooked his arm in hers and started her walking again.
Didier stepped ahead and pulled open the front door.
Fight.
Agnes jolted again, then shook her arm free and turned to face Wilson. “No. I won’t go until you tell me what I’ve done.” Her voice was loud, shrill. “What are you arresting me for?”
Wilson shoved her through the open door and swung around to face her. He pushed his face close to hers, his lower teeth showing through his lips. “Murder,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Three of them.”
CHAPTER 2
WHAT DID THE TWERP WANT THIS TIME? A COMMAND to appear in Mulvaney’s office never sat well with Jason Powers, particularly when it came like today’s: “Get your ass in here right away.”
Jason sank into the fake leather easy chair and mouthed a curse when the worn springs dropped his hips several inches below his knees. The armrests boxed him in to shoulder height so he pinched his elbows against his sides. The Mulvaney straightjacket.
Christian Mulvaney lit a cigarette from the last flickering glow of the previous one. He paced behind his desk, dwarfed by it.
In the six years Jason had worked at the Santa Rosa Press Democrat, he’d seldom seen his boss sit in the high-backed chair behind the oversized desk. Mulvaney paced when he talked. Paced when he read. Paced when he was on the telephone. Seven ashtrays were positioned around the office, and he used every one of them.
“I hate to say this, Powers, but your seniority is about to go in the toilet. You need to show me something right away or I’ll have to send you back to the daily room.”
Jason shifted his six-foot frame as much as the chair allowed. “You have a problem with my stories?”
“Your stories are fine. But for the last several months you’ve been slow with them.”
“I’m slow because I’m thorough.”
Mulvaney tapped a half-inch ash into an ashtray on a small table by the window. He lifted his leg and swung one hip up onto the edge of his desk. His next drag consumed nearly one-fourth of the remaining white paper of the cigarette.
Jason pulled his ankle up to cross his knee, but it wouldn’t stay there. He returned the foot to the floor. Sitting, Mulvaney disrupted the equilibrium in the room. It felt like the earth’s magnetic field was in the middle of a reversal.
“Let me put it this way, Powers. You�
��re an excellent investigative reporter. Trouble is, you need to be a good investigative reporter.” Mulvaney paused for another long drag. “Know what I mean?”
Jason shifted in the chair again. No sense answering. An explanation followed each of Mulvaney’s stingers, whether or not comprehension was acknowledged.
“Look at it from my desk. Fewer and fewer people are reading newspapers these days. I don’t know what it is with the younger generation, but they don’t want solid reporting or meaningful comment. They want flashy sound bites and attractive women reading from teleprompters with those fake color contact lenses.”
“And that’s my fault?”
Mulvaney stayed on the desk. “Television and the Internet are the competition. They can get news out as it’s happening. We’re tied to evening deadlines and once-a-day distribution. We report yesterday’s news, so we can’t let it slip any later than that.” He finished off his cigarette, lit another, and walked behind his desk.
Jason leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. “The stuff I do isn’t straight news. It doesn’t have the same deadlines. And my writing is good.”
Mulvaney pivoted, throwing ashes from the end of his cigarette. “Yeah, but even the best writing is useless if it’s stale. You still have to be quick and good. Like you were before.”
Before? Jason blew a full breath and inhaled quickly to keep the thick, smoky air from entering his lungs. “Before what? I’ve maintained regular submissions. The bigger stories take time. They need more attention.”
Mulvaney stabbed his half-smoked cigarette into an ashtray and flopped into his chair. He rolled toward the desk and the casters squealed like they’d run over a family of mice.
Jason’s eyes locked on to the source of the rising smoke-snake on the desk. Mulvaney never wasted a butt.
“Jason.” Mulvaney took a deep breath and let it out with a suppressed cough. His voice was soft, missing the usual rasp.
Jason? That was a first.
“Someone needs to say this,” Mulvaney said. “And I know what’s left of your family won’t do it.”
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