The Three Monkeys
A Carter A. Johnson & Kate Menke Thriller
by
Robert Schobernd
Published by Robert Schobernd at Smashwords
Copyright 2017 by Robert Schobernd
Other books by Robert Schobernd
In the Carter A. Johnson & Kate Menke Thriller Series
The Blonde Heiress
The Dogtrot Murder
Cape Abigail
*****
The Irrevocable Change Trilogy-
The Evolution of an Assassin
Book One - Reverse Metamorphosis
Book Two - The Assassin Evolves
Book Three - The Devil’s Homecoming
*****
And for a change of pace -
59 Hours
A Short Dark Thriller/Horror Story
Outnumbered vols. 1 thru 6
A Zombie Apocalypse Thriller/Horror Story
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1 Compromised
Chapter 2 The Three Monkeys
Chapter 3 The Investigation
Chapter 4 Searching for Leads
Chapter 5 Copy Cat
Chapter 6 Deline’s Awakening
Chapter 7 A Death Threat
Chapter 8 Paul Peltier
Chapter 9 A Dead Mutt
Chapter 10 The Order of White Patriots
Chapter 11 Jewel & Dinesh
Chapter 12 Deline’s Brush With Death
Chapter 13 Dr. Axel Wilson
Chapter 14 Anastasia DuBois
Chapter 15 The Impaling
Chapter 16 Johnny Peltier
Chapter 17 Wrapping Up
The End
About Robert Schobernd
Prologue
Jerome Klopmier yawned as he focused on the boring, early morning drive to work. Leaves were finally budding on the deciduous trees as the daily temps rose and the threat of a hard freeze waned. He'd driven down Highway 67 at least five days a week for the past fifteen years, and today looked to be no different. Dawn was breaking through the last light gray shades of night, but the car's headlights were still needed to spot stupid deer in the distance before they vaulted gracefully onto the pavement like empty-headed ballet dancers.
Jerome stretched and twisted his upper body then glanced to his right at the old, paint-bare barn he'd already seen thousands of. The boring views seldom changed along the rural roadside. The dull, painted aluminum roof looked battleship gray in the early light, but this morning something looked different. Something was horribly different. Faint, almost ghostly outlines in pale white immediately locked his vision on objects against the vertical wood planks and held it there. Startled, he blinked and stared wide-eyed at the terrible three-dimensional aberrations before him, unable to turn away from the ghastly sight.
The mid-sized sedan drifted to the right as it slowed, and the tires lurched off the sharp, raised edge of the concrete pavement onto the gravel shoulder. Jerome pumped the brakes hard as he steered back onto the roadway. The car jerked and careened to the left before fishtailing across the center line until he got the weaving under a semblance of control. A disgruntled driver flew past from behind with the horn blaring as his one-finger wave telegraphed his displeasure at Jerome's reckless swerves. Both passengers woke full of concern and questions.
"What the hell?" Ray blurted as he rubbed his eyes. "Did you hit something? A deer?" At the same time from the back seat, Stan asked, "You alright, Jerome. What's wrong, buddy? You don't look good, you sick?"
Near the next farm lane entrance, the turn signal clicked incessantly as the car slowed to exit left then slid to a stop with an abrupt jerk in a small cloud of white gravel dust. Both alarmed passengers stared at him apprehensively. Jerome's pale skin went slack as he sat statue stiff staring straight ahead ignoring prying questions. Forcefully, he slapped the steering wheel with his right palm until it shuddered like a dying man taking his last breath. "Shit, shit, shit. It can't be. I can't have seen that." Ray and Stan sat mystified as they studied their friend's erratic behavior.
Ray cautiously asked, "Didn't see…what?"
Jerome spoke softly and solemnly. "We've got to go back. I don't want to be right. Oh Lord, I pray I'm wrong." He made the sign of the cross with his right hand, and then his torso swiveled in the seat to see Ray and glance back to Stan. "I'm sure there are bodies, naked human bodies, hung on the side of that old barn a ways back. Three of them. They're outlined in paint like ghost silhouettes. That's why I noticed them."
Ray turned to Stan and rolled his eyelids upward as if Jerome had gone completely bonkers. He didn't want to show his disbelief by grinning, but his mind's image of dead naked bodies displayed on the old barn was pretty wild.
Two cars sped past before Jerome backed onto the highway and fearfully drove back to the barn. Two more work-bound vehicles with headlights on flashed past them in the opposite direction before Jerome reached their turn-off.
As the car slowed, Jerome muttered a prayer. A sparse gravel lane pointed them up a slight grade straight to the gray, dilapidated wood structure. Eerily, it dominated the top of a long, low ridge. Traces of ancient red paint that hadn't been scrubbed away by sun and rain over many years left inconsistent pinkish hues in the boards’ weathered grains. The darkness of night clustered behind the structure as if prolonging the evil secret it protected. The car's headlights flashed across the barn as Jerome hit the high beams and abruptly stopped near the end of his turn. The obscene vision was clearly illuminated. Ray and Stan sucked in loud, deep breaths and squirmed in their seats.
"Jesus H. Christ!" Stan exclaimed softly. "You sure you want to go up there and get involved in this? We could leave and go on to work and let somebody else turn this in. Otherwise, we'll probably be tied up here the whole day."
A harsh glare from both Jerome and Ray caused Stan to grimace and flop back in the seat as he raised his hands in mock surrender. "Just sayin’."
Jerome fumbled his cellphone out of the holster and dialed 911. "Get Sheriff Kahl. This is an emergency, and I need him now!"
Ray lowered the window and extended his cellphone to snap a close-up picture.
"Lady, it's an emergency because there're three dead bodies hanging on the side of a barn south of town at the old Carson place.
"Yes, damn it, I'm sure they're dead, and no I didn't touch anything."
Ray slumped back in the seat looking sickly. "I think I'm gonna puke. There're steel rods sticking out of their…" Suddenly, Ray plunged his head through the window opening and noisily spewed his breakfast into the cool morning air.
At the same time, the main perpetrator of the crimes lay reveling in the success of the first step of their long-term quest to make a difference for the country he loved. Sleep was out of the question; he was too jacked up to relax. The mild adrenaline rush had passed, but the danger of the night still fed his thoughts and his insatiable ego.
He smiled into the dim glow cast by a nightlight. The look of unadulterated fear he'd elicited from Ms. Evelyn Estes heightened his mood. As expected, she played the Good Samaritan when he flagged her down along the four-lane Great River Road between Alton and Grafton, Illinois. A body lying crumpled behind his white van on the shoulder of the road insured she'd stop. She freaked out when the broken, bloody victim jumped up, grabbed her and hustled her into the cavernous back space of the van. A gun barrel pushed harshly into her stomach cavity convinced her to squelch her objections and swallow the knockout pill. She was the first to be caught and the first to taste harsh justice for her sins. The damn
'd progressive liberal attitudes of she and her compatriots were ruining the country, and they had to be stopped.
Next was that fat, loudmouthed, Jew bastard Lloyd Barnstein. His exasperation was evident after his rental car was rear-ended at a stoplight. Like good neighbors, it was suggested we move out of traffic to a nearby park to exchange insurance information. A revolver jammed in Lloyd’s back convinced the obnoxious, scheming ass to get inside the van. He complained loudly and even demanded to know if his abductors knew just who the hell they were messing with. That was priceless. After his fat-cheeked, arrogant face was pistol whipped, he timidly took the knockout pill without resistance.
The people must stop allowing criminals like Barnstein to operate in public office. They must be alerted and informed of whom to vote for versus those to reject for unacceptable behavior.
He stretched and pulled the thin cover up to his chin. The house was quiet, but over the years, outside traffic noises had grown louder as the masses left their pathetic warrens and headed to work like hungry, trained rodents at feeding time.
He reveled in the success of their third encounter as he scooted sideways and yawned. Capturing Wardell Bowers was more involved, a real challenge. But he and his accomplice rose to the occasion and made him theirs. Bowers had no inkling that one of his abductors joined the serving staff at the dinner he attended. The plan involved mixing a strong laxative into the hot chocolate Mr. Bowers was known to prefer over coffee. When he extricated himself from the crowd and left early, he was followed to a convenience store where he parked quickly then waddled inside with his butt cheeks pinched tightly together. That was hilarious. Minutes later, the uppity nigger's car was forced off the road to secure him. That was the easiest part. Once he saw how serious his abductors were, he came along like a docile lamb. The lying, black bastard had no inkling he'd been one of the first three selected for slaughter.
The proud man's breathing slowed, and he relaxed with a grim but satisfied expression of accomplishment. Step one was complete. Even the news media fell into line by naming the victims “The Three Monkeys” just as he'd anticipated they would. The news whores were so predictable.
He drifted to the past. The deeds performed in the locked basement room spoke to the history of the home. When his great-great-grandfather purchased the stately house, the room with three barred cells became a cloistered family joke. But a dark joke never shared with any outsiders. Shortly after moving into the innocent, peaceful-looking home, the heinous basement dungeon was locked and ignored. No one knew or wanted to wager on the acts that had transpired there in the past under the original owner's direction.
Step two would soon shock the entire country again. Maybe then the fools would realize how far their values had drifted away from the intent of the country’s founding fathers. Those values had to be restored, no matter how many faux martyrs had to be sacrificed.
Chapter One
Three months earlier, on a clear, cold, still night on the East Coast, Carter Johnson and Kate Menke closed in on their target. For six weeks, they'd investigated the activities of Eric Micovich to confirm his role in forcing underage children to endure the hellish sexual perversions of his sick-minded customers. Many of the foreign youngsters were sold outright to the pedophiles he supplied innocent victims to. Others were rented by the week or month and forced to endure the customer's abuse and perverted desires. Some carried the scars of physical wounds, and all would live with the emotional trauma for the rest of their troubled lives. Micovich knew many would be injured; he even had a rate sheet detailing the extra charge for each physical injury inflicted on disposable rental bodies. His family lived the good life provided by his selling children into inescapable sexual debauchery.
They’d discovered suicide rates were extremely high for this group of abandoned and forgotten children. Death was often preferable when no other escape was deemed possible.
Irrefutable evidence in hand, it was time to impose Micovich's punishment on a personal level. After Micovich was dealt with, lists of his worldwide suppliers, facilities where the children were being held, and the names of his associates would be faxed to the FBI. This time, Mr. Micovich's conviction would not be avoided because of a legal technicality and unsavory but highly intelligent and effective attorneys. His sentence would be carried out imminently by his judge, jury and executioner. Vigilante justice would be imposed on the spot with no appeals granted.
From running shoes to head gear, the two vigilantes wore black and blended into the late ebony night under a faint sliver of golden moonlight. Micovich's New Jersey estate consisted of six manicured acres. The house in the middle of the grounds was huge and opulent. Thirteen inches of recent snows had melted to watery slush and would make walking a slippery hazard on the saturated sod of the expansive lawn.
Carter shut off the engine. "Are you ready?"
"Yes, I want to get it over with so we can move on to a criminal who is less revolting. Common crime is one thing, but this man is totally disgusting. I can't force the thoughts of those suffering children from my mind as long as he is alive. It escapes my comprehension how anyone can facilitate such heinous actions for any amount of money."
"Decent people can't and won't. Only lowlife animals sink to this level because of the huge amounts of wealth they get. Let’s go."
Four nights earlier, during a short but heavy snowfall, they'd cut two vertical round rods from the wrought iron fence surrounding the property. Water poured on the grinding disk had held the sparks and noise to a minimum in a stiff breeze blowing away from the targeted mansion. They secured the rods back in place with thick two-inch-wide black plastic tape so the cuts were almost invisible.
They were parked a quarter-mile from their selected point of entry, far enough that the guards wouldn't see the rental car's exterior lights flash as they exited. Minutes later, they watched the two guards pass each other close to the perimeter of the house. As soon as the guards were out of sight, the vigilantes removed the cut rods, entered the estate, and split to intercept their individual targets on the next phase of their walking surveillance.
Carter stayed near the fence but swiftly moved toward the north side of the multi-story, French country-style home. Their ultimate target sat at his desk inside the luxurious office on the first floor where he'd been every weeknight until well past midnight.
He lay on the soggy ground in the meager shadow cast by a twenty-foot long row of leafless shrubs trimmed to twenty-four inches high. A large deciduous tree between the shrubs and a spotlight added feeble, speckled shadows to his chosen ambush point. In a minute, his clothes where he lay were soaked to his skin.
The two guards’ standard routine put them on alternating routes as they passed in opposite directions. After surveying the perimeter close to the house, they switched and walked along the inside of the fence, staying twenty to twenty-five feet from the black steel barrier. The guard would be ten to twelve feet from Carter as he passed in the dim light cast from floodlights mounted at the house. This was the most dangerous part of their mission. A botched takedown could result in off-duty guards responding in minutes with shoot-to-kill orders. Carter breathed shallowly as he held his limbs deathly still and resisted his body’s urge to shiver.
Faint whistling cut through the silent, gloomy night; the country and western tune grew louder as the guard drew closer to the ambush point. Carter assumed the mercenary was middle aged or older because the tune was from the early fifties. That equated to the man probably being highly experienced in his chosen field of security. Footfalls were light but discernable on the soft saturated ground. Carter clutched a 9mm silenced H&K in his right hand and a stun gun in his left hand. The stun gun required direct contact with the victim's skin; a portion of the guard's neck and face were the only areas exposed through his black, full body tactical gear. The success of Carter's attack would dictate which weapon would take the vile mercenary warrior down. If the attack went as planned, the man would be alive but
severely immobilized.
The whistling stopped abruptly, and the guard stood silently in place ten feet from Carter. Through a break between the shrubs, Carter saw the guard's feet pointing toward the end of the row of shrubs. He prepared to lunge up from his prone position and shoot the man with the handgun. Then he heard plastic crinkle before the wheel on a butane cigarette lighter spun. The flame flickered then went out as the guard greedily sucked smoke into his lungs and then exhaled slowly with a sound indicating pure pleasure. Squishy footsteps resumed; Carter counted to five, rose silently, and rushed the guard from behind. An H&K MP5 machine gun hung over the guard's right shoulder instead of being carried at the ready position as it had been previous to the start of his smoke break.
A fraction of a second too late, the guard's back stiffened as he heard Carter sloshing in a dead run. He turned slightly to the right as the H&K's strap slipped off his shoulder in a practiced move. The cigarette fell from his fingers in slow motion. Both hands grasped the H&K as his body continued to swivel to the right. The gun barrel leveled as it swung in an arc toward his attacker.
Carter lunged forward with the stun gun extended as he pushed the MP5's heavy barrel and suppressor away with his right forearm. His feet slipped in the slush. Momentum carried him to the guard’s left shoulder. The prongs touched the guard's exposed neck forcefully above the upturned collar. Immediately five million volts of electricity surged through the man's body. A short, silenced burp of bullets shot from the machine gun. In an instant, the guard contorted and shuddered before silently crumpling to the ground where he shook and slobbered for several seconds. Unless he suffered from a serious heart condition he would survive. And if he didn't survive, Carter would not extend sympathy to him. The mercenary chose to be an enabler to a sleazy criminal for a minor share of dirty money.
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