Stroke of Innocence! (Denny Ryder Paranormal Crime Series Book 4)

by Deborah Bowman

  STROKE OF INNOCENCE!

  Denny Ryder Paranormal Crime Series

  Book Four

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  PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER FOR

  TEENS AND ADULTS!

  A Novella by

  Deborah A. Bowman

  Clasid Consultants Publishing, Silver Spring, Maryland, USA

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, incidents, and dialogue, except for incidental references to public figures, and/or places, products, and services, are imaginary and not intended to refer to any living persons or to disparage any company’s products or services.

  © Copyright 2015

  ASIN:

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopy, recording, and information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Clasid Consultants Publishing

  www.clasidconsultantspublishing.com

  Silver Spring, Maryland, USA

  Foreword

  “Messages from Benny” would be a good subtitle for this fourth novella, which begins the second Trilogy in the Denny Ryder Paranormal Crime Series.

  With a handwritten greeting, serial killer Benjamin Russo wants to taunt and laugh at law enforcement and the FBI. After all, he was able to get away, leaving nothing behind but two young children—both presumed dead—at the conclusion of the Stroke of Fear!/Stroke of Midnight!/Stroke of Silence! Trilogy. But the “messages” and communications don’t stop there!

  Benny wants to send Chief Detective Ted Collins on a wild goose chase. Little does he know the truth will be revealed in the prophetic dreams of Denny Ryder and a five-year-old child.

  Will Russo be taken into custody to stop the killing of innocent, young children, or will the Stroke of Innocence be shattered?

  Deborah A. Bowman, author

  Wounds...

  They say that time heals all wounds, but rather…

  Just who in the world are they?

  And, of course, what does it matter…

  What they do or what they say?

  Unless it’s the monster who preys on innocence…

  What child will he capture and kill today?

  As Denny Ryder heals from the Stroke of Fear1

  Her dreams torment her in an agonizing way.

  Wounds of the soul at the Stroke of Midnight2

  Will never heal in the Stroke of Silence.3

  The horror of reality from second sight

  Will drain away the Stroke of Innocence.4

  © Deborah A. Bowman, 2014, Revised 2015

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  Footnotes:

  1Stroke of Fear! Book 1 in the Denny Ryder Paranormal Crime Series, amazon.com/dp/B00CFWYAX4.

  2Stroke of Midnight! Book 2 in the Denny Ryder Paranormal Crime Series, amazon.com/dp/B00F8Z2KAK.

  3Stroke of Silence! Book 3 in the Denny Ryder Paranormal Crime Series, amazon.com/dp/B00JH78VOE.

  4Stroke of Innocence! Book 4 in the Denny Ryder Paranormal Crime Series, ASIN number to be assigned.

  Chapter One

  Benny Russo had never been faced with being on-the-run before. He was furious that the police and FBI had gotten so close to his experiment, especially since they’d come to his home turf in Evergreen, a small rural community about an hour outside Denver.

  For 25 years, Benny had felt secure in knowing he had an off-the-grid hideout if things got too hot. Now his secret was blown, shot to smithereens! That nosey-posey Ted Collins from Ohio—did that useless cop get lucky for once in his life? Nobody was that dern lucky!

  Benny just couldn’t figure out how Detective Teddy-boy had found the buried corpse of seven-year-old Jeremy Manchester, without his head o’course, in Good Hope, Ohio, and followed him all the way up into the deserted mountains of Colorado after he’d abducted Clarissa Alexander outside Dayton, Ohio.

  It made no sense a’tall ‘cause there’d been no witnesses to either kidnapping. What kind of mojo or voodoo was the FBI using? The Dayton detective certainly t’weren’t smart ‘nuf to have figured any of this out. Why, that Mr. High-and-Mighty so-called investigator had let Russo walk right out of the Dayton police station last January—fool copper! It defied all logic, and Benny was nothin’ but logical with the IQ of a genius.

  Yeah, Benny should never have let those two kids get away from him—Clarissa and the boy, Tommy, whom he’d taken right out from under his father’s nose in Evergreen. But how could that washed-up Detective Collins have connected the two cases in a matter of days? There was sumthin’ funny going’s on that was mysterious and mystical.

  Benjamin Russo didn’t like to believe in supernatural powers beyond the control of his criminal mastermind intellect. Even though he’d been diagnosed as autistic as a child and having Schizophrenia as a graduate student, he took no meds to clog up his mind and relied on his IT hacking skills to stay ahead of the law. He’d created the “talking-heads” from pure brains like his own, once the decaying bodies had been cut away.

  It was all science, anatomy, and mind-to-mind interaction, which allowed him to develop the raw intelligence of children after the baby and toddler stage, but before kids could be ruined by their parents, just as his father had tried to ruin him, and his meek mother had done nothin’ to intervene.

  He’d showed his dad that he couldn’t make fun of him by not talking to either parent for years. They’d thought he couldn’t speak at all until one day his father went too far and Benny got even. Benny talked a blue streak for as long as they’d been alive to hear it. They’d been too old and stupid to be a part of his experiment with their feeble brains, but Ben had kept their severed heads frozen as a reminder of his superiority over lesser mortals.

  “No, no,” Benny mumbled over and over again as he drove an eighteen-wheeler refrigerator truck filled with deep freezes stocked to the brim with his talking-heads kids. He needed to find them a home so they would be free to commune with him. That was his first priority. Then he’d worry about what kind of unnatural energy was being used to track him.

  “I’ll be a’comin’ afta’ you’s Collins and your’n brainless head can keep my folkses comp’ny. You’re no dang good for anythin’ else. And mebbee … not right away, but soon as I’ve settled the rest of my kids, I’ll be comin’ back for that Clarissa gal too. She was a fine, intelligent specimen.

  “Tommy hasn’t been mentioned on the radio or in the FBI files I’ve hacked so he must not’a made it out of the hills. I didn’t think either one of them would,” he rattled on as if his kids could hear him.

  “Clarissa this and Clarissa that … sickening! I knew it was best not to know them’s names. The newz ain’t privy to all the going’s on I’ve stirred up, no’how. No mention of my cabin neither.”

  Benny started laughing so loud he could barely keep the tractor-trailer on the road. He’d just come up with an idea on where to hide his operation, and it was perfect.

  “They won’t find me this time. No sir’ee!

  “Well, I reckon it’sa time to turn this here rig around,” Benjamin Russo cackled. “Who’d a’thunk’it I’d head to a sunny, hot hellhole like Mexico. I’ma ‘sposed to be crazy, right?”

  He laughed and giggled like a child as he sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Juarez Bridge.

  The first-grade boy he’d picked up in El Paso, Texas, was knocked out cold from chloroform in the passenger seat of the cab. A Do
berman was curled up between them. A second child from Juarez was unconscious in the sleeper. Benny wasn’t taking any chances that the kids would conspire against him like the last two. Almost got him snatched up by the FBI!

  “Wha’a’ya’think, Dog? Is either of them boyz a good candidate for the project?”

  He’d have preferred one of ‘em to be a pretty little girl, but luck had brought these two chillen’s right to his cab.

  “Do these youngin’s know how fortunate they be to live forevah, Dog?”

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  Chapter Two

  Clarissa was barefoot, stumbling through wet weeds and slick, piercing rocks. Was that ice? She couldn’t see. It was pitch-black all around her. There were no stars or moon to shed even a hint of light. Then she remembered how tall and thick the trees had been. Had she only dreamed that the tall policeman had come and saved her like she’d dreamed about the pretty red-haired lady?

  It was soooo… cold! She was shaking violently, her little teeth chattering.

  “Tommy?” she called.

  “Too loud,” she whispered, clamping her freezing hand over her mouth.

  The bad man and Dog liked to hunt when it was dark. He’d dragged her from Mommy’s car in the middle of the night, pressing a cloth over her face that made her go to sleep.

  Clarissa and the boy, Tommy, had run away from the bad man. They’d told each other their names, which was forbidden. But Tommy had gotten sick and wandered away while she was sleeping. She had to find him. He said he’d take care of her. In her dream, Tommy had died … was it a dream?

  A loud flapping sound came from the trees, terrifying the little girl. “Who, who…” It was an owl with strong, sharp claws. The big bird latched onto her head as she threw herself to the ground. She screamed as hair and skin were torn from her scalp.

  “Gotta’ be quiet,” she sniffed, heaving sobs as blood dripped into her eyes.

  The nasty owl hooted in anger as he flew away. Clarissa cried as she lay on the frozen earth. Was that snow? She didn’t remember there being any snow.

  She knew she had to get up and keep moving or she would freeze to death. Tommy had told her that.

  She limped and struggled through the darkness. Her feet were bleeding too. She could feel the stings of cuts and gashes, even though her toes were numb. She ripped off the bottom of her favorite Hello-Kitty tee-shirt and wrapped the dirty cloth around each foot.

  There was some light up ahead. Maybe it was the house with the family and the lady who had helped her? She tried to run, but it was too hard.

  Then a blood-curdling scream filled the air!

  She crept up to the edge of the trees. She could see the bad man in the glow of a floodlight behind a little cabin on a snowy hill. Not the cabin she remembered.

  There was a little boy—not Tommy, who’d had light hair—a small, dark-haired boy begging the man, “Por favor; por favor. Santa Maria!”

  The bad man snarled, “Why the hell don’t’ya speak English? I’ma’ gonna teach ya’. You’ll see.” He was holding the boy by the scruff of his shirt.

  “Si, hablo un poco de inglés. I … I … speak little inglés … ah, English.”

  Another high-pitched squeal and a loud “crack” ripped through the night. The little girl jolted, nearly jumping out of her skin as she held her startled breath just in time to stifle the scream of terror lodged in her throat.

  Clarissa couldn’t look, but her eyes betrayed her. The bad man had slashed the familiar meat cleaver into the boy’s thin neck. He was silenced as the man laughed and laughed. The small head was rolling on the ground, his dark shiny eyes looking straight at her. Bright red blood was pulsing all over the pure white snow. The smell of it was so strong, she thought she could taste it. “Gag!”

  She screamed and screamed and screamed; she just couldn’t help it.

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  Clarissa woke up crying hysterically in her pink bedroom at home. Mommy and Daddy were with her.

  “Clarissa, Clarissa, sweetheart, it’s just a dream. It isn’t real,” Daddy said softly, rocking her back and forth in his arms.

  Mommy was holding a washcloth to Clarissa’s short wavy hair—her beautiful long braids were so tangled and damaged they’d been cut off. Her mother was crying too. During the nightmare Clarissa had pulled out a handful of hair. Her scalp was bleeding.

  “No, no, Daddy; it’s real! The little boy … the bad man cut off his head! His big brown eyes were looking right at me. I couldn’t help him,” she cried, almost incoherently through heartrending sobs.

  Sophia Alexander gazed into her husband’s eyes, which reflected his sense of helplessness. Mrs. Alexander wondered if the nightmare her family’s life had become would ever end.

  Kirk exhaled a huge sigh, “I hate to call at 1:00 a.m., but …”

  “Yes,” Sophia agreed. “Clarissa, honey, I’m going to call Mrs. Ryder. Would you like that?”

  “Yeah, Mommy, please,” the child pleaded. “The red-haired lady will know if it’s real or not.”

  Clarissa hugged her Mommy’s neck as Daddy held her. His tiny daughter couldn’t see the tears streaming down his face. Kirk didn’t know how to keep his little girl safe anymore. It was tearing him up inside.

  Kirk’s family was everything to him—his love for his wife and child unquestionable. He’d been on a business trip when the car accident and abduction occurred. Had it not been for Mrs. Denise Ryder, they would never have known Clarissa had been kidnapped. Mrs. Ryder and Detective Ted Collins had put the pieces together to prove that his child had not just wandered off as was first suspected.

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  Chapter Three

  The Alexander’s didn’t need to worry about disturbing Denise Ryder’s sleep. Drenched and shivering, her heart pounding, she gasped as sweat and tears mingled together. Her long, auburn hair and pillow were soaked. She’d just had the most awful nightmare. The worst ever!

  Was it true? Was it fear of the future? Was it symbolic of the past? Dr. Irma, a 90-year old WWII Holocaust survivor, had taught Denny so much about dream recognition and precognition, but she wasn’t sure this time. It was too, too horrible! It couldn’t be real!

  RN Kari Logan hadn’t rushed into the room. Denny must have screamed only in her mind, even though she now had a voice, recovering completely from the Stroke that had paralyzed and silenced her, just like one of Benny’s kids. Yet, Denny and Clarissa had both lived in spite of the overwhelming odds against it.

  Denny’s acute hearing picked up Kari’s cell phone chiming softly in the next room.

  “Oh, no!” Denny wailed, fighting the darkness all around her, finally finding the handicapped button for the lamp.

  Denny knew instantly that Clarissa had seen the same vision. So it was true.

  “No, no, no…” Denny whispered. Clarissa’s only a child. She’s too delicate to deal with this … this … atrocity!

  Kari dashed into the room. One look at her caregiver’s face told the story.

  “I know, I know … Clarissa,” Denny stuttered, struggling to get up and dress herself.

  “Denny, let me help you,” Kari urged softly. Her patient nodded in response.

  Denny let herself go limp and crawled back into her mind where there was silence, but she couldn’t erase the images. She knew Russo had decapitated another innocent child. This was the first time she’d actually seen the evil deed committed. The screams … the spurting blood … the boy’s glassy dark eyes peering up at her.

  Denny threw herself away from Kari, vomiting all over the crisp, white sheets. She coughed up vile-smelling fluids and putrid chunks of food.

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  While the young RN held her dear friend, Kari noticed that Denny had become silent—not a good sign.

  “Please,” Kari prayed silently with all her heart, mind, and soul to the triple goddess of her Irish paegan faith, “Don’t let this spike in BP cause another Ischemic Stroke of fear!”

  The s
pasms and choking finally subsided. Kari quickly stripped the bed, throwing the soiled linens on the floor as she hurried to get Denny washed and dressed. They had to get to Clarissa!

  Both the child and her 32-year old patient had an extra cortex in their brains, which showed up clear as day on an MRI. It also gave the woman who resembled a faerie woodland nymph and the wee imp Clarissa a full-fledged sixth sense. Kari didn’t know what they’d dreamed tonight, but she knew it had to do with the serial killer Benjamin Russo.

  Logan threw a coat on over her scrubs, which doubled as pajamas, and eased a warm poncho with a hood over Denny’s dark, wet hair. It was October and the nights were starting to turn cold.

  When Kari turned to snatch up her purse and keys, Denny said softly, “I have to call Ted in the morning.”

  The RN noticed the young woman was staring into space, captive in another world. “Sure, Denny, of course. Are you ready to go?”

  Her faerie princess didn’t respond.

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  Chapter Four

  The next morning…

  Detective Theodore Collins was returning to the precinct. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Apprehensive, probably. He’d been so sure that he was just another Russo victim. His left hand released the steering wheel for a few seconds to skim his fingertips across the bypass scar on his chest under his cotton shirt and loose jacket.

  When the police officers and young detectives who worked for him called or stopped by to check on him while he’d been recuperating, they congratulated him and called him “hero.” Ted didn’t feel like a hero.

  How could Ted be considered a hero with a psychopathic serial killer out there? He had to get Russo or die trying.

  Ted’s own life wasn’t important to him anymore. He hadn’t told anyone that he’d decided to come back to work against doctor’s orders. Ted didn’t have anything to live for, except finding and killing Benny Russo.