by H. T. Night
“I’m not sure if I’ll be up for it,” Fiona told her, and then looked back at me. “Unless ya’ll want to still do this. Jimmy knows how to get there.”
The plainclothes policeman says he’s only got a few more questions for Fiona and then we can all leave. That sounds like a great idea, as the coroner just arrived and the red flashing lights from an ambulance has announced the dead will soon be leaving Johnny’s house. I can see a “News Channel Five” van pulling up beside the ambulance. I’m sure they sped over here recklessly once they heard about Candi.
Shit!
I’ve always dreamed of being on TV someday, but this ain’t exactly what I had in mind. If Fiona didn’t need me, I’d find a way to sneak out of here. I briefly glanced back at the carnage in the kitchen. Poor Johnny and Brenda. They barely got settled in their latest pad, and their dream, before friends could even throw them a nice house-warming party. And they have, or had I suppose, an eclectic set of friends. Gay, straight, democrat, republican, and then...there’s us.
It sucks that Johnny will never finish the restoration of this house. They got a great deal on a beige brick one-story he and his gal pal Brenda bought to set up for their west end neighborhood salon. When we walked in the front door, the scent of perm solution overpowered the onset of death. They were just getting a small taste of what could’ve grown into something great. All of this made the scene of what awaited us in the kitchen so much worse, since we had no warning other than the steady dripping from spilled bottles of color, acetate, and of course, blood.
Thank God. The interrogation has finally ended, and Fiona’s on her way over here. But it looks like my plan to mosey up to her side and comfort her ain’t going to happen. Jackie and another female in our group, Angela Meyers, beat me to it.
Damn it, Angie!
Jackie’s roommate is strikingly pretty, with long hair that’s platinum blond. If you ask me, Angie’s beauty seems more ‘made up’ than natural, and we’re all still trying to decide what her real hair color is. But I’d never tell her this. Hell, she might beat me up, or try to incinerate me with her big green eyes. The girl’s incredibly strong, man, so I won’t mess with her, especially when we’re all tense. Not to mention she carries a third-degree black belt in karate.
“Okay, let’s go,” said Fiona between sobs. “I guess we should take the wine with us, since I need a damn drink and soon.”
She motioned to the good luck gift she brought with her, still sitting unopened on the coffee table, which had been ignored by the forensic team. Angie stepped over and picked it up, her eyebrows raised in admiration as she read the Frogs Leap label, which is the vineyard of our gang’s favorite merlot.
“Babe, if you don’t feel up to going to the Thompson house, we can postpone tonight’s investigation to some other time,” I suggested.
Really, I thought it crass to even consider doing anything but mourn with Fiona over her loss. And it’s not like the rest of us were strangers to Fiona’s pals. Jackie and Angie were friends of Johnny and Brenda too. The rest of NVP, short for Nash-Vegas Paranormal, had met them and Candi before, even though just in passing for Ms. Starr. I’d gotten to know Johnny a little, and he’d been to our home down in Arrington a few times. I probably would’ve spent time with Candi, too, but the only time she made it to Arrington was on a weekend night when I had to work late. Any other time she and Fiona hung out was either at Candi’s posh home or at other celebrities’ estates in the area.
My wife shook her head sadly, as if unsure what’d be best.
“You and the guys should go on, and we’ll stay with Fiona,” said Jackie, with enough force to encourage us to follow her suggestion. She wrapped her arms around Fiona’s shoulders protectively. Angie gave an over-enthusiastic nod to support Jackie’s ‘directive’.
“That sounds like the best idea,” Tom chimed in, before I could offer another rebuttal.
I turned to look at him and the rest of the guys, and could clearly read the desire to get something productive done tonight. I might’ve resisted more, but since this genuinely seemed to be what Fiona wanted, I nodded my compliance. I knew she’d save the wine until after, but for now she wanted something else upon which to focus.
“Ya’ll should leave now,” the uniformed policeman advised, stepping over to our group while motioning to the front door. Already, three more news vehicles were crowding the curved driveway.
Flanked by Jackie and Angie, Fiona led the way out. She paused to give me a hug and kiss before we all stepped outside, squinting from camera flashes and the video lamps’ searing brightness.
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THE FORGOTTEN EDEN
The Talisman Chronicles #1
by
Aiden James
(read on for an excerpt)
PART I
The Murder of Dr. Mensch
“So...you’re sure that’s all, then?
The agent poured himself another round of coffee, carefully stirring in a measure of cream as if this simple act required complete concentration. Jack Kenney studied him from where he sat, absently drumming his fingers on top of a steel table in the middle of the interrogation room. Well-defined muscles tensed beneath the tight confines of his faded black T-shirt, he seemed poised and ready to launch himself out of his chair like a hungry lion. Even his strong brow and chiseled facial features made him look predatory, with hazel eyes aglow from acute agitation.
Yet, the exhaustion and weariness brought on by the endless stream of questions that began last night made him yearn painfully for sweet silence and the unlikely chance he might recoup some of the sleep he’d lost since his abduction from Tuscaloosa, Alabama.
“Like I’ve been telling ya’ll,” said Jack, tersely. “There’s nothing more to add to my statement.”
Agent Frank Reynolds grimaced in irritation. Jack figured the man didn’t take kindly to a smart mouth, definitely not one belonging to a twenty-year old college kid. The agent’s earlier speech about being in this line of work for nearly thirty years repeated tiredly in Jack’s head, along with the threat of what would become of him if he didn’t start cooperating soon. He could also tell the man’s patience and self-described ‘even-tempered nature’ had worn dangerously thin.
“I guess we’re all just supposed to believe that Dr. Mensch’s beating and subsequent death in the hospital were mere coincidences which, unfortunately, you’ve been linked to,” said Reynolds. “Is that what you expect us to believe, Mr. Kenney?”
He moved deliberately toward Jack, the cup of coffee in one hand while he motioned to his two companions, Agents Ben Casey and Steve Iverson with the other.
“You must think the three of us have shit for brains, son, and your arrogant attitude is really starting to piss me off!”
He stepped up to the table and leaned down into Jack’s face, who remained unfazed by the advancing giant of a man glaring at him. Instead, amused and fascinated by the elder agent’s behavior, Reynolds’ thick southern accent intrigued him, degenerating now into a slur. Even more, his flushed face burned with anger, in such contrast to his pale gray eyes and wavy white hair. Like a clean-cut Santa hittin’ the sauce. The man’s large stature of nearly six and a half feet would’ve intimidated most anyone. But Jack remained unaffected by the man’s invasion into his personal space.
He grinned wryly, studying the agent’s face to determine the true depth of malice. He then let his eyes wander to the I.D. badge dangling from the right lapel of his dark blue suit coat. A stoic picture from a few years earlier, the identifier ‘AS419’ etched in gold glistened brightly under the glare from the long fluorescent light above the table.
“What the hell do you find so amusing?” Reynolds hissed.
“Forgive me…sir,” Jack replied, unapologetic. “I’m just tired...tired enough to find everything a little amusing at this point.”
“Maybe I can convince you to take Frank’s words a bit more serious.”
; Steve Iverson spoke. Svelte in build, and not near as tall as Reynolds, he grasped Jack’s shoulder and squeezed the tender area just below the collarbone, steadily increasing the pressure until the bone throbbed.
Jack’s reflexes forced him to look down onto the steel table, where the distorted reflection of his painful grimace greeted him. The tangled mess of his thick auburn hair further obscured his rugged handsomeness, except for his hazel eyes. Narrow slits of anger growing brighter by the second.
Iverson increased the pressure on Jack’s collarbone, forcing him to clinch his teeth to keep from screaming. The torture continued until Jack fell out of his chair. It landed loudly on its side, and he squirmed on the cement floor with Iverson’s hand still attached to his shoulder’s sensitive pressure point.
“Had enough, asshole?”
The agent brought his face down low enough to peer into his victim’s eyes, snickering in contempt. A nervous tic quivered excitedly along his lower lip, and he seemed to draw immense pleasure from Jack’s expression, whose immediate fantasy was to turn over and shove his knee hard into Iverson’s groin. But he couldn’t free himself.
“You know, right now may be as good a time as any to rearrange this pretty boy’s face. How about it, Frank?”
The agent suddenly jerked Jack’s head back by the hair. Peering into his face, Iverson’s smirk remained, though slightly broadened by his apparent amusement. But the coldness of his steel-blue eyes glowed even more malleable, revealing the cold-hearted killer within. Jack could tell the man might ‘eliminate’ someone with no more remorse than he’d have for smashing a stink beetle.
In a way, he reminded Jack of a ‘down home’ country singer his grandfather, Marshall Edwards, liked to listen to. His sandy brown hair brushed back to where he resembled Merl Haggard, for a moment Jack pictured the tune “I’m Just An Old Jukebox Junkie” coming out of Iverson’s mouth. The image struck him as particularly funny and almost made him laugh. A slight snicker escaped from his mouth anyway. It took just an instant for the agent to react.
“You think this is funny, you sorry sack of shit??” he screamed into Jack’s ear as he yanked him to his feet by the hair. “Suppose I show you something real funny—like your dick sticking out of your ass, you stupid fuck!!”
Jack winced in pain, and started to take a swing at him. Before he could deliver even a slight blow, Iverson pushed him into the waiting arms of Ben Casey, who shoved his arms high behind his back. The ligaments in his joints stretched to the point of tearing.
“I’m all for giving this punk a workout.”
Short and somewhat portly, but the most menacing of the trio, Casey’s husky voice reverberated deep from behind Jack.
“He’s begging for it.”
Held fast, Jack warily watched the other two men step up to him.
Oh shit…
A nauseating blend of tobacco, sweat, and a mixture of colognes filled his nostrils—one cheap, and the other a strong musk scent. He swallowed hard, for he knew if he vomited on any of these guys, they might not let him live long enough to apologize.
The door to the room suddenly swung open, the hinges whining loudly from the door’s steel-insulated weight. Another agent stepped into the room carrying a long, black attaché case in one hand, and a small blue duffel bag in the other. Reynolds and Iverson backed away from Jack, while Casey released his arms.
“Well, good afternoon, Peter,” said Reynolds. “Or, should I say ‘evening’, since it’s nearing the dinner hour.”
He moved over to him and extended his hand in welcome. The man set the attaché case and duffel bag down on the floor.
“It’s good to see you, Frank,” he said, responding with a hearty handshake. “‘Sorry I’m late. Traffic was worse than usual tonight. Am I interrupting anything?”
“No...not really,” he said, shooting a mean glance toward Jack that clearly implied ‘you’ll keep your damn mouth shut if you know what’s good for you’. “He’s all yours, now.”
The newcomer also turned his attention to Jack, eyeing him as if a rare animal on display. Jack glared in response, forcing this man named Peter to return his attention to Iverson instead.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, extending his hand for Iverson to shake.
“Pete, this is Steve Iverson, and Ben Casey from the New York office,” said Reynolds.
“Peter McNamee...I’m pleased to meet you both.” He shook hands with Casey.
“Pete’s dad and I go way back,” said Reynolds, glancing coolly toward Jack once more. “We used to work together for the bureau down in New Orleans.”
“Dad still speaks fondly of those times …. We’ll need to catch up some when our work here is through.” Peter McNamee shifted his gaze back to the haggard young man standing nearby. Again, Jack met his gaze head on. An awkward moment, and then Peter resumed his conversation with Reynolds. “I’m sure he’ll be interested to know what you’ve been up to.”
“Just working, son. Same as always....”
More awkwardness permeated the air.
“Well, I guess I’ll get started.” Agent McNamee picked up his attaché case and duffel bag from the floor. He moved over to the table and sat both items on top of it.
The other agents looked on, and for the moment seemed unsure of what to do next. Jack felt better about his own situation, as it appeared McNamee intimidated them. At least fifteen years younger than the others, Jack could tell he was just slightly older than himself.
“I’d like to interview Mr. Kenney in private,” said Peter. “As you’ll be able to follow along just fine from outside the room, I hope you won’t mind my request. It’s easier for me to remain focused.”
He pointed to the surveillance cameras barely visible in each corner of the room. Reluctant, his colleagues moved to the door.
“All right, then.” Reynolds tone revealed more irritation. “Holler if you need anything, Pete. This gives us extra time to visit with Jeremy Kenney. Maybe he’s ready to enlighten us a little more.”
He gave Jack one last menacing look before exiting the room with his partners. After a hushed prayer for his brother’s safety, Jack turned his attention to the lone federal agent in the room.
***
Peter McNamee smiled and moved over to Jack’s side of the table and picked up the chair. He extended his hand for Jack to shake, only slightly deterred by Jack’s indifference to him.
“I guess a handshake may be a little inappropriate at this point,” he chuckled. “Have a seat, Jack. We’re probably going to be here for a while.”
“Actually, I need to take a piss.”
Toward the back of the room was a small closet-sized room with a toilet and sink. The agent nodded that would be fine.
“How about some coffee? Or, perhaps a Coke?” offered Peter. He moved over to a small refrigerator that sat beneath the coffee maker next to the door.
“A Coke sounds great,” said Jack, before closing the bathroom door.
“Yep. I’ll grab you one.”
Peter brought the soft drink and a cup of coffee for himself over to the table. Jack soon joined him there. His hair combed back he stood behind his chair; sizing up the man sitting across from him.
“Please, sit down,” Peter told him, unpacking his duffel bag. He placed a pair of journals in front of him, along with a small recorder in the middle of the table. Jack studied the recorder as he sat down.
“Do you really need this?” he asked. “I thought the surveillance shit in this place would be sufficient enough.”
He motioned to the windowless room around them. The mustard-yellow walls seemed enhanced by three overhead fluorescent lights that hung from the room’s fifteen-foot ceiling. The middle light hovered a few feet above the table.
“The recorder is for my own personal use,” said Peter. “I’d like to review our session at a later time, if that’s okay with you.”
Jack shrugged his shoulders.
“All right, then
. This thing can run for several hours, should we need it. Are you ready to get started?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” sighed Jack. “But, nothing’s changed since I started talking to your buddies two days ago. My story’s the same.”
Peter smiled and leaned forward. Blond, blue-eyed, and dressed in a blue Armani suit and gold necktie; he looked far too pretty to be a law enforcement agent.
“Jack,” he said. “I haven’t heard it. All I’ve had a chance to look at is the original police report from Tuscaloosa, which simply states you were the one who found Dr. Oscar Mensch unconscious and then called for an ambulance. That, and the fact you were the last person we can identify who saw him alive in the hospital after he regained consciousness.”
Jack nodded in response, guardedly wondering if that was all the agent knew.
“So, you just want information concerning Dr. Mensch and his death? That’s it?” He popped open his Coke and took a good-sized drink, grinning impishly. “It seems like a wasted use for that recorder, since it’ll take just a few minutes to answer whatever questions you have on that subject.”
“Maybe...maybe not,” said Peter, his own wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Dr. Mensch’s death will be our starting point. I’ve got other questions related to this whole mess in Tuscaloosa. Why don’t we take it one step at a time and see where we end up?”
Without waiting for an answer, he turned on the recorder. He marked the session’s intro with an identifier and picked up one of the journals sitting in front of him and leaned back in his chair. He, too, had an I.D. badge similar to the other agents. His read ‘RS638’ etched in gold, along with his photo in a stoic pose similar to Reynolds’ badge.
Jack snickered, thinking it must be part of the standard operating procedures for these guys…. To look like someone’s got a secure grip on their balls while threatening to yank them off should they crack so much as a sliver of a smile.