BOOKER Box Set #2 (A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense): Volumes 4-6

by John W. Mefford

  “I don’t feel like listening to you giving me one pathetic excuse after another.”

  Using my knife, I sliced my orange in four equal parts and chewed on a wedge, the natural juice infusing my body with a jolt of energy and focus.

  I felt eyes on me.

  “Can I get you more bacon or pancakes?” he asked, removing his glare, walking toward the kitchen area.

  “I’m good. I don’t usually eat like a cow.”

  “I could see you’re still in great shape. Always were a pretty driven kid.”

  “How would you know?” My voice was laced with venom.

  He paused for a second. “Sounds like you developed a lot of discipline too. Must have been the police academy that gave you that.”

  Twisting in my chair, I just shook my head. “Did you find my life story on Wikipedia? Anything to make it appear like you’d been in my life the last thirty-odd years?”

  Sean kept his back to me, flipped the faucet, and began washing dishes.

  Even with the white noise, I could sense a lack of resolution lingering in the air. I picked up dishes and brought them to the counter.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Sure.”

  I walked around the main room, my balance and brain both stable. Nothing stood out. No real personal items. A few canteens hung from pegs, a couple of chests, stacks of sheets and blankets, a backpack.

  The water shut off.

  “Hey, look out!” he shouted.

  I stopped in my tracks. I looked down, then kneeled and touched the end of a piece of rebar. That must have been what I’d spotted from the cot, when I could hardly speak without spitting on myself.

  “Special features on new Dominican homes?”

  “Yeah right. Actually, this shack was built on a preexisting slab, along with three other homes and a garage behind us. Apparently, someone had started building a nice-sized home, then abandoned the project not even halfway through it. Squatters took over and built these….um, designer, makeshift homes. People in third-world countries will do anything to survive. And anything to make a buck.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “It’s kind of sad in some ways. But I admire the survival instinct.”

  My thigh muscles pushed me upward, and my head didn’t spin. Progress. “I wonder if the people who left this unfinished house lost their money in the last economic downturn.”

  “The Dominican economy is a ripple in the ocean compared to the US economy, but it works off a different cycle. The weather plays a bigger role. It’s actually called the breadbasket of the Caribbean because it grows, farms, and catches almost everything that's served for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

  “Didn’t know that,” I said, continuing my stroll through Sean’s tiny home. “Sounds like you know this country pretty well. Still can’t figure out why someone would just up and leave a piece of property without selling it off.”

  He wiped down the counter with a wet sponge. “Hard to say exactly in a country like this. Could have been someone in the drug-smuggling business. Tons of cash one day, then it’s stolen or his drugs are hijacked the next. Tough business.”

  I scratched my scruff, wondering how much bullshit Sean was throwing my way.

  “You never told me who those guys were outside.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair, and I could see he noticed my eyes checking out his odd hair color.

  “Lots to share. I’m not even sure where to start.” He tossed a torn, discolored towel to the counter.

  “I’m not looking for an Oprah moment.” Connecting Oprah to Sean almost made me chuckle.

  “Let’s sit,” he said.

  I had to do the opposite. “I’ll stand, thanks. Need to get my gears and engine working in tandem.”

  He folded the chairs, leaned them against the far wall, and scooted the mini-table off to the side.

  “Those guys are a few of my local contacts. You probably thought I was involved in something illegal. A drug deal possibly? Wait, is that why you were at the door? Did you think I’d been shot?” He held up a finger, his voice raspy.

  I scratched the back of my head, glancing down at the rebar sticking out of the concrete floor. “It was pure instinct…and not because your DNA matches mine, supposedly.”

  “Ha!”

  As much as I wish I could reverse-engineer my DNA, I knew he was my dad. He nearly matched my six-foot-three height, we had the same basic build: broad shoulders, smaller waist. While he was rather pale under a smattering of fatigue face paint, our facial structure had similarities…although something had changed.

  “You look different,” I said bluntly.

  “I’m fifty-seven. Life happens.”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  He released a breath. “A herd of camels trampled my face. Took reconstructive surgery to piece me back together.”

  Was he serious or just telling me more lies to solicit some sympathy from his cynical son?

  “You’re chewing the inside of your cheek, just like your mom,” he said. “You don’t believe me. I can understand your doubt.”

  My stomach had begun doing flips, just what I’d been hoping to avoid. Damn him!

  “Okay, I’ll be the sucker. What were you doing to get caught in the middle of a herd of camels?”

  He set his feet apart and raised both hands. “Booker, I’m going to share some stuff with you that…could be tough to hear. Frankly, I’m breaking protocol by telling you anything. But I’m willing to take the risk. Finally.”

  My feet felt nailed to the surface, so I propped an elbow on my crossed arm and nervously rubbed my chin.

  He sucked in more air, as if summoning up a dose of courage.

  “For starters, I got my new face because my cover had been blown. I was running for my life in the middle of a desert. I stuck my foot in a ditch and went to the ground. I sprained my ankle, couldn’t move. A bunch of herders came my way, and camels pummeled me. I don’t think they ever saw me.”

  I felt my forehead crumple. “What cover?”

  “I posed as a peasant in a tiny village near Kandahar. Word circulated that I was connected to the US government. A local chief sent a gang door to door looking for me. They’d put a bounty on my head.”

  “What branch of the government, legislative or judicial?” I deadpanned, purposely downplaying an incident that could have killed Sean.

  He smiled. “Neither. I was a ‘contractor.’”

  “You’re not a salesman and never have been; is that the story you’re trying to tell me?”

  Shaking his head, he pursed his lips.

  “Booker, it’s—”

  “Complicated, right. Why didn’t you tell me the truth? Didn’t you think I was worth that?”

  He sucked in another breath, his eyes blinking a couple of times. “You’re a grown man now. You’ve seen how the world works, at least part of it. In my career, you can’t tell anyone what you do. It’s not safe. It might be hard for you to comprehend this, but I didn’t tell you or your mother because I wanted to keep you safe. I know I wasn’t much of a father or a significant other. The only thing I could do was protect you.”

  A tattered loveseat sat to my right. I leaned on it, then rubbed my face, still trying to process everything.

  “Momma hates the ground you walk on,” I said.

  “I know. And I know you’ve probably cursed me a hundred times as you’ve fallen asleep at night. All I can say is I’m sorry.”

  I couldn’t let the apology sink in. “You’ve been a contractor all these years?”

  “Yep.”

  “For who?”

  I had my theories, but I needed to hear him tell me the truth.

  He glanced away. “This is tough. I haven’t shared my real background with anyone since I was recruited coming out of college.”

  I twisted my head.

  “The CIA. Mostly,” he said.

  “Another gray answer.”

  “Lots to sha
re. But I’m an open book. I’m finally ready to tell you everything.”

  So many questions ripped through my brain, many going back to when I was just a boy. That led me into thinking about Esteban.

  “I’ve got some shit to share with you too. A boy’s life hangs in the balance.”

  His eyes found the corner of the dilapidated main room. “He’s why you were roaming around in the jungle in the middle of the night?”

  “A contact shared with us—”

  “Us?” Sean straightened his stance.

  “A couple of locals who’ve offered to lend me a hand on the two cases I’m running with.”

  “Two cases. There’s more than just finding this boy whose life is in danger?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  We both released a chuckle at the exact same time.

  “Opening up isn’t all that easy,” he said.

  I nodded, essentially admitting I shared a trait with Sean, my father. That had never happened before.

  “You were saying something about a lead?”

  “Right. Actually, it was a buddy of a contact who believes Esteban was kidnapped by members of the Amador drug cartel. According to the source, that group is based just on the other side of the mountain, real near where you— By the way, why did you mug me?”

  I held out two arms, my mind finally getting around to asking what should have been my first question.

  “Like every other decision I’ve made. To keep you safe.”

  “Couldn’t you have tapped me on the shoulder, even called out my name?”

  “I’d only seen you from a distance—”

  “How could you see anything out there?”

  “Night vision goggles. Surprised?”

  “I shouldn’t be.”

  “I’d been tracking you for just a couple of minutes, then you stopped between those two large trees. Your legs were bent at an odd angle. I was almost certain you’d found one of the tripwires. You knew you couldn’t move, and I knew it, too. If I’d called out your name or tapped you on the shoulder, do you think you could have remained completely still?”

  He had a point. “I hear ya.”

  Sean pulled out a cell phone, checked something on the screen. It looked like a model from five years ago.

  “Got somewhere to be? A camel to hunt down, a country to save?”

  I didn’t mind throwing on a double dose of sarcasm. It was my coping mechanism.

  “Need to file my report in six minutes,” he said in monotone while pocketing his phone. “See, right there. I’m sharing more than I should.” The last few words were barely audible, nothing more than wet rocks tossing in a blender. He coughed twice, then filled a glass with water and drank half of it.

  I took a step toward Sean, extending a hand. “You okay?”

  He nodded while clearing his throat. It sounded like he was cranking a lawn mower.

  “You don’t have some crazy disease from one of the enormous bugs I’ve seen around here, do you? I got welts on me the size of a goose egg.”

  I reached up to my neck and scratched one such bump.

  His chest still lifting from his coughing fit, he raised his chin and pointed at a crease in his neck.

  “You see it?”

  Another step closer, then I saw the raised, discolored skin I thought I’d noticed earlier.

  “Courtesy of the Taliban. I was in a group of four, trying to blend in with some herders moving across a mountain between Afghanistan and Pakistan,” he said, pulling the lawn mower rope again. “At a makeshift check point set up by the Taliban, one of the guys questioned my paperwork. He stabbed me in the throat while I had my back to him. A gunfight erupted around me while I lay on the ground, blood pooling in the dirt around me. One of the few times I didn’t think I’d live to see this day.”

  Sean’s role in the world slowly began to take shape.

  “How did you escape?”

  “A couple of Apache helicopters were close by. They came in and cleared the zone, brought me back to camp Bagram. Doctors did a helluva job saving my life. I suffered major damage to my voice box, but given the odds, I was happy with the tradeoff.”

  “You were lucky,” I said.

  “It’s my Irish blood,” he said with a blue-eyed wink and a smirk.

  “I’ve got some of that Irish blood in me, I guess,” I said more to myself, thinking back on the few months since I’d left the DPD to start my own business. “I’ve got my own PI business, which connects to the original reason why I flew to the Dominican.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Well, I’m not aware of your original case, why you came to the Dominican, but I knew about your PI business. You’ve done some great work, helped a lot of people. From a distance, I’ve never been more proud.”

  Silence fell upon the room until both of us shuffled our boots on the smooth concrete surface.

  “You’ve been watching me?” I wasn’t sure if I was flattered or felt like I’d been stalked.

  “Some of it I just found online, reading stories like anyone else. But I’ve got friends and contacts in agencies all over the world, even a few in Dallas. Let’s just say you’ve made an impression.”

  My grin was short-lived as more doubt pinged my mind.

  “You’ve traveled the world taking part in operations most people never hear about. It’s a thankless job, I’m sure.”

  He nodded, but I could see he knew I had a point to make.

  “Even though you felt like you had to lie about your career, you couldn’t pick up the phone and call? You couldn’t have visited more often?”

  His lips drew a straight line, and he glanced at the floor.

  “I recall one time when I was five or six. You dropped by Momma’s place and picked me up. She had to tell me that you were my dad. You took me to the park, and I played on the jungle gym.”

  His eyes narrowed, as if searching his memory banks.

  I could feel a swell of emotion catch my voice. “You just sat on the bench, reading, talking into some shoebox-looking thing.”

  When I finished speaking, the breaths came out in rapid burst. I hardly cared about his answer, but I’d wanted to tell him that for years.

  “I had my head up my ass,” he said bluntly. “What else can I say? I thought I had a higher purpose, more important work to finish. You seemed well adjusted. Your mother took good care of you. Looking back, I can see I didn’t make the best decisions. But life goes on. You’ve turned out pretty good.”

  I wasn’t sure my ex-fiancée, Eva, would agree. “Eh,” is all I could muster.

  He shook a long finger. “I recall that day now. It was late fall, chilly outside. You had on a Cowboys sweatshirt. Snot was running down your nose. Every time I tried to wipe it off, more would replace it.”

  Astonished to hear him recite that kind of detail, I just stared at this complicated man.

  “Not that it matters,” he said, “but that shoebox you think you saw, it was one of the early wireless phone devices. I had to carry around a battery pack as big as a shoebox. Bleeding edge technology.”

  I laughed for a quick second. “Can I get a drink of water? I’m not used to a carb fest for breakfast.”

  “My son, the workout fiend. Sure, let me get you a bottle of our coldest.” He opened his mini-fridge and tossed me a bottle, then glanced at his phone. “Follow me.”

  He flipped back the gray curtain, and we entered a tiny rectangular room. A laptop sat on a small table, a bathroom with yellowish tile and no door to the right.

  “I guess you don’t host much company,” I said.

  He gave me the eye, both of us acknowledging our mutual dry humor.

  The overhead light blinked. I glanced up and saw dried-up bug carcasses piled inside a cloudy light fixture.

  “Damn, I thought the city of Dallas had funding issues for the police department.”

  He tapped a few keys on his laptop, then hit enter.
r />   “Encrypted laptop to send out your reports?”

  He squinted for a second.

  “You need readers, don’t you?”

  “Just know I can kick anyone’s ass out there, including yours if I have to.” Lifting his eyes, he shot me a wink. “I’m just checking the forecast. The weather here can turn in a heartbeat. And if you’re out in the middle of nowhere, it can be dangerous.”

  Staring at him mousing around the weather website on a laptop whose engine sounded louder than my Saab back home, a tinge of doubt crossed my mind. His mouse had a wire connected to it, and he pounded sticky keys with his forefinger. Not only did he appear to be a computer neophyte, his whole story seemed contrived—all for my benefit, it seemed.

  Was I allowing my thirty years of built-up resentment to cloud my judgment? Possibly. Who wouldn’t? But his crappy home, camo outfit, and stories of daring escapes and brushes with death made him seem larger than life, enabling him to remain clean of the murky minutia of where he’d been all my life. All it would take was an active imagination, perhaps facilitated by some of Tom Clancy’s best work, and Sean Adams could deliver his best sales pitch ever. On his son.

  Just the thought of it made me gnash my teeth, my hands curling into fists.

  “Got a storm rolling in, according to this radar screen,” Sean said, tapping his chin.

  I glanced at the screen, noticed lots of forest green. Perhaps dear old dad used to be weatherman in Pocatello, Idaho, selling advertising just to keep the three-employee TV station open. Then he knocked up the cashier at the corner drugstore before taking all the money he’d stolen from all of his sales scams, and fled the country. He eventually found a cheap, unlicensed doctor in a third-world country, who sliced and diced his face until he was unrecognizable even to his own flesh and blood.

  There couldn’t be a connection to Britney, right? Her performance had been Oscar worthy, up until she admitted needing my services to bring Esteban back to his father. The more I thought about it, Sean’s two-bit acting job bordered on ludicrous. I could only imagine how Momma would be ripping into him right now. He’d be lucky to make it out of this place alive. Knowing Sean, though, he’d think of some excuse or distraction, allowing him just enough time to hightail it out of this shack. We’d never hear from him again.