BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense)

by John W. Mefford

  A fifty-something man with a gash across his nose and face carried a woman across the lawn. She dangled off his arms, her colorful outfit looking as lifeless as she did.

  The Temple’s front door slammed open and two paramedics rushed toward a fireman, who was carrying a little girl, maybe Samantha’s age. Was she alive? I ran toward them. Just as I got there, the little girl came alive, coughing like she was attempting to extricate an alien buried in her chest.

  I knew the person or group of people who did this couldn’t be human.

  She reached back toward the door, shouting “My baby, my baby.” Poor thing.

  Another body came out of the smoky building, two paramedics in masks carrying another woman. She was unconscious, her clothes torn to expose most of her skin, and a fork was jammed into her chest.

  I held back the urge to pull it out and instead asked, “Do you need help?”

  “We got it,” one said.

  Just then, an Indian man ran up and covered the scantily-clad woman with a towel. “She must maintain her dignity, even in death.”

  My eyebrow twitched, as my brain and eyes tried to process the scene before me. Terror had struck again.

  “Is there anyone else still in there?” I yelled above sirens and wails of anguish.

  One fireman flipped his head and muffled something I couldn’t understand under his oxygen mask.

  Not thinking, I pulled open the front door, first noticing lights bobbing in the dark haze. Crouching lower while covering my mouth with my shirt, I shuffled through a foyer and found a bank of stairs to the right. Two fireman rushed down with no bodies; I guessed they had upstairs covered. I moved forward, turned left down a hallway, then right, and found ground zero. A room had been gutted, first by the explosion and apparent fire. Four firefighters held a dripping hose, and one gave the others a thumbs up.

  “We’re good, we’re good,” I thought I heard him say to his comrades.

  Passing several rooms on both sides, I stuck in my head, searching for more victims, but finding none. My eyes burned, but my pulse finally dropped under a buck fifty, realizing that the first responders had done a remarkable job in clearing the building and putting out the fire.

  Smoke tickled the lining of my throat and I began to cough. One more room. I jogged in, my eyes beginning to water. Through the crib railings, I spotted a lump, swaddled like a baby. It wasn’t making any noise.

  “No, no,” I pleaded. Leaning over, I cradled my arms under the blanket. It felt light, and I brought it to my face. It was a plastic doll. What remaining breath I had emptied from my lungs. Tucking the doll under my arm, I retraced my steps and emerged from the building.

  “How many are verified fatalities?” I heard a cop ask. He looked familiar, an older guy, thin white hair, a small tire around his waist. But he was all business. Three other officers ran up to him and they started talking, one guy using his fingers. Was he counting the dead?

  The scene had calmed a bit, every victim either being addressed by a person in a white shirt or ambulance doors closing, transporting injured people to the hospital, likely Parkland, one of the busiest ER units in the country.

  Darting my eyes in every direction, I searched for the little girl. I stopped and let out another deep cough, which went on for about ten seconds.

  “You need some oxygen, pal?” a firefighter asked as he walked by.

  Ignoring him, I turned my body around. There she was, perched against the trunk of a tree, possibly a parent kneeling next to the little girl who appeared to be crying and reaching for something.

  I jogged over, slowing my pace as I got closer.

  “Navya, there is nothing we can do. We must pray for our friends, but crying will not help,” a woman said. I guessed it was her mother.

  The young girl wiped her face and her voice stopped making noise, but tears still rolled down her little cheeks. Crouching to one knee, I pulled out the doll and slowly offered it to her.

  “Is this yours?”

  She grabbed it out of my hands and clutched it against her shoulder, her eyes squeezing shut. She rocked back and forth.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Her voice was tiny.

  Looking at the mom, she nodded and put a single hand on the girl’s shoulder.

  “Booker!”

  Paco. I turned, and he ran wildly toward me. “Another bomb just went off. The Mosque off Live Oak and Skillman.”

  Without saying a word, I ran to my car, wondering if the war on terror had finally hit our homeland.

  24

  Stabbing the window button, the glass couldn’t lower fast enough. Leaning my head out the opening, I unleashed hacking coughs as wind whipped my diluted eyes, tears turning chilled against my face.

  I rubbed my eyes for the umpteenth time, thankful I hadn’t been in the smoky building for any longer than I was.

  Now I headed toward another battle zone. It’s like we’d been transported to Kabul or Baghdad. Or warring insurgents had decided to wage a war in Dallas.

  Catching a series of green lights, I raced back up Ross, my speedometer climbing past sixty. Part of me thought this couldn’t be real, two bombs going off in a matter of minutes. Who the hell would conceive such a plan?

  Cars, people, buildings zipped by, just as images flashed through my mind. The skinheads at the park accosting the old man, the silver dog tag, then Henry playing the video of three bald, white guys locking the kids in the school bus.

  That lying piece of shit skinhead who claimed he and his buddies were drunk, just out to make a little trouble, but they meant no harm to anyone, any race. He claimed they were college kids. He claimed he had a Hispanic girlfriend, even reciting her name and number.

  Swallowing down another cough and a shot of anger for allowing the punks to outsmart me, I glanced at the digital car clock: 5:09. Two bombs in what, an hour? Was this a sign of a copycat bomber? Or a revenge bombing? Was it one person or a group? Maybe warring groups? I knew in some parts of the world Hindus and Muslims were less than friendly with each other. In our city, I’d never heard of any threats.

  It was all just a cluster, no evidence or logic pointing toward a path of resolution, or even a general direction.

  Approaching Greenville, I slowed to about ten miles an hour as crowds of people with rigid faces crossed the street. They’d likely heard about the bombing at the Hindu Temple, but had they learned about the second at a mosque? Waiting impatiently for the last of them to clear the road, I glanced left and spotted my favorite collection of construction workers, huddled together no more than twenty yards away, all looking over the shoulder of their fearless leader. Were they counting the cash I’d tossed into the wind? A bill, maybe two fell to the ground, and he bent over.

  “Whoa! Lunar eclipse alert,” I said, as I drove by the loser. His butt crack was nearing exposure. I grimaced.

  Dodging a strolling couple holding hands, I headed due east on Ross, shooting past Matilda and Mary Streets, then Hubert. Another half mile, then I saw it, and I took my foot off the gas. The all-too-familiar sight of terror. Horrified expressions, outstretched arms reaching for loved ones, chaos.

  I jammed my brakes, parking in the middle of a liquor store parking lot. At first glance, I spotted far fewer first responders than at the Temple bombing: one fire truck, one ambulance, two police cars. Then again, I’d shown up at this scene much quicker.

  Racing across the street, I noticed dozens of onlookers just standing there, people of all colors. Shock was apparent, but no one was doing a thing to help the poor people trapped in the building who were perhaps choking to death at this very moment.

  A small amount of smoke surged out of a broken window on the first floor toward the back. Scooting around the side of the building, I stopped at each window, searching for people, survivors, or victims. No sign of civilians, and I could feel my chest relax just a bit.

  Two firefighters were hosing down what looked like the remnants of a kitchen. I saw a sink, a
charred oven, flatware scattered all over the room coated in soot. I took in a waft, the same pungent burning smell from the temple only minutes earlier. I would never get used to that.

  Brushing by a row of red tip photinias, I found the back lot, three officers talking to two women, both wearing headscarves.

  “Any victims still left inside?” I asked like I was still one of them, a uniformed officer.

  One shook his head, then went back to his interview.

  “Booker!”

  Turning around, my heart skipped a beat when I saw her. Eva. She ran up and bear-hugged me.

  “You feel good,” she said.

  Shocked to see her affection, let alone while in uniform, I braced her head against my chest, happy to feel life and a caring soul amidst the backdrop of hatred.

  “My partner and I were first on the scene,” she said, taking a step back, her eyes glistening.

  I nodded.

  “We were lucky this time, Booker.” She took in a deep breath, and I wondered if she might break down. “No one was hurt. Well, one of these ladies suffered slight smoke inhalation, but she’ll be fine. From what she said, after the catered food had arrived for the evening meal, she and her friend had gone to her car to bring in boxes of clothes and shoes for a collection they had organized. The bomb went off while they were outside.”

  “No one else in the building?”

  Shaking her head, she said, “Worship services and the celebration were supposed to start an hour from now.”

  I put an arm on her shoulder. “You’re a good cop, Eva. And a better mom.”

  “Hush. Don’t make me think about my Samantha.” She cracked a grin, her bronze skin lighting up the morose surroundings.

  “She’s mine too.” I gave her a wink.

  “Hold on, let me check in with the officer in charge,” she said, holding up a finger.

  I practically hacked up a lung with a relentless cough. “No…problem,” I sputtered.

  Flipping her head to look at me, she stopped and scrunched her eyes.

  “I was at the other crime scene, a Hindu Temple off Ross and Fitzhugh. They weren’t so lucky.”

  She gripped my good shoulder and I dropped my eyes to the ground, my mind searching for a thread of data that would open the door just a crack to finding out who was behind all of this crazy shit. That’s all I needed.

  Looking up, I asked, “Did anyone call in a bomb warning?” Another cough escaped, then another. I couldn’t stop, heat searing my chest, veins bulging in my neck and face. I doubled over and didn’t stop until Eva guided me to the back of an ambulance and a paramedic stuck an oxygen mask over my face.

  Lifting my chest with a slow breath, I could feel sweat sticking to my shirt. “That’s better. Thanks,” I said in a muffled tone to the paramedic.

  Eva spoke to two other officers and into her shoulder radio, a vein twitching at her temple. That was her serious side, a telltale sign of her gritty focus. Jogging back toward me, I could feel my pulse pick up before words were spoken.

  “Your question, about the bombers calling the department with some kind of warning struck a chord. I called it in, and they checked each division across the city. No calls of any kind, no warnings, no threats.”

  Standing up from the back of the truck, I felt a cold patch forming on the back of my neck.

  Eva could sense my concern, and she touched my chest with her hand. I didn’t say a word about the cat attack.

  “I know what you’re thinking. Sergeant said they’re sending out bomb units to every place of worship in the city limits,” she said.

  Shifting my eyes to her, my brain was on overdrive. “There’s too many.”

  She nodded slowly, her heavy eyelids expressing concession. “He said it could take days. There are literally hundreds.”

  I tapped my pocket. I’d left my phone in the Saab. “What’s the time?”

  “I got five forty-eight. Why?”

  I scratched my face and felt the lump from the skinhead scrap the night before. Spinning on my toes, I got my bearings again, reminding myself of our location and the location of other worship buildings. Possible targets.

  “Give me your phone.”

  “Why?”

  “Give me your phone, quick.”

  As she pulled her phone out of her pocket, I said, “Do whatever you can to send a bomb unit to the synagogue on Bryan and Skillman. Got it?”

  “That’s just two or three blocks that way.” She pointed east, her voice fraught with trepidation.

  “I’m headed there now. Call it in, then say a prayer that we don’t have a third bombing in three hours.”

  Flipping on my heels, I scooted around the ambulance and hauled ass. Leaping off a cracked sidewalk in the middle of traffic, horns blaring, I dodged two cars, regained my stride and cut through a fast-food parking lot, then climbed over a chain-link fence into an apartment complex. Splitting between two buildings, I dropped off a retaining wall and onto the parking lot, aiming for the egress where an automatic, black, wrought iron gate was shutting behind an exiting car.

  My breathing all out of whack, I bore down, swinging my arms faster to propel me toward the narrow opening. Just in time, I got to the gate, turned sideways, and squeezed through.

  Looking left, the synagogue was positioned at ten o’clock, but no smoke and no commotion. All quiet—for now. But I couldn’t take a chance. I checked the time on Eva’s phone: 5:53.

  Picking up the pace, I shuffled across Skillman, a crazy busy street. I must have turned into a ghost, because drivers acted like I was invisible, road kill at best. Once safe on the east side of the road, I thought about my opening line once I opened the doors to the synagogue—on the Jewish day of Sabbath, nonetheless.

  A fragment of doubt poked at my instincts. I had no proof or logical reasoning why I thought another bombing was possibly only minutes away from shattering more lives and fracturing a city that was on the brink of self-destruction. The MOs for the bombings today didn’t fit in with the first two, which, because of their advanced warning, had essentially caused fear to bubble near boiling temperatures before the bombs finally went off.

  Unable to sort through who or what group could have planned this mass murder, and why, I raced to the front door of the synagogue, jogged through a foyer and into the sanctuary. All heads were bowed, a rabbi chanting a prayer or passage in Hebrew. A few sets of confused eyes turned my way. Pausing a brief moment, trying to decide how to communicate my message, I felt a familiar tickle in my throat.

  I coughed so loud the echo pinged vaulted ceilings and tiled floor for at least ten seconds. Shuffling in their seats, the entire congregation turned to look at me.

  “Uh, sorry to interrupt, but I have reason to believe there might be a bomb in this building somewhere.”

  Before I could get another word out, gasps filled the air, and there was shouting and finger pointing.

  “How do we know you’re telling the truth?” With a chiding tone, a young man in his twenties stood on the bench of his pew, speaking like an orator to his mass following. I could see his eyes narrowing from forty feet away. “You could be sending us to our death by asking us to walk out that door.”

  More people stood up, women and men moving their kids closer, as accusations hurled in my direction. I couldn’t decipher a single phrase. It was obvious that trust among the congregation had been corroded from the first two bombings. Whether that was the intent of the bombers or not, fear and loathing spewed out like a tanker oil spill.

  “Please listen. Please. Everyone. We may not have much time.” I attempted to be heard above the crowd, easily over a hundred folks, but I’m not sure anyone was listening as the intensity of their emotions grew each second.

  “Who are you, anyway?” Another man, short and round with high-waisted pants, stepped into the center aisle, his forefinger aimed directly at my head. “A cop, FBI?”

  Shaking my head, I brought both hands up, thumbs digging into my eyes
. “No, I don’t carry a badge. I’m a PI.” Puzzled faces looked my way.

  Perhaps I should have kept my career change to myself.

  “Are you a member of Al-Qaeda?” the round man shouted, as hordes of other men crowed behind him. The expansive room immediately shushed to a whisper, all eyes awaiting my next move.

  I arched my neck out of anxious frustration and hesitated for a brief second, wondering how close to six o’clock we were, fearing the bomber had set detonators at one-hour increments. Not wanting to incite an all-out riot, I dared not to reach into my pocket for my phone. But we were running out of time, and part of me just wanted to start throwing people over my shoulder and hauling them to safety outside.

  “Please listen. I’m not with Al-Qaeda. I’m trying to stop another bombing, or at least anyone getting hurt. You must evacuate. Now!”

  People shouted and pointed fingers, chaos and our demise possibly just minutes away.

  Splintering the noise, I heard a crack, then another. Something smacked a wooden pew. They kept coming at the same cadence, the volume growing louder, and voices softened. The raucous crowd parted like the Red Sea, and my eyes blinked wildly.

  “Everyone, I know this man. His name is Booker Adams. He is a good man. He saved my life just last night.”

  Yosef, lifting a cane skyward, spoke with passion and purpose.

  I only knew to nod again and again, my feet moving like they were on hot coals.

  “We must leave this building now. Follow him outside, quickly.”

  Without another word from anyone, people slipped out of their pews and ran down the aisle directly at me. Shifting backward until I ran into the door, I propped it open.

  “Thank you. Please keep moving. Faster, yes. Keep moving.” I moved my arm back and forth, ushering throngs of women, children, and men, all ages, some wearing yarmulkes, a few older men sporting curly hair like my friend Yosef.

  The crowd began to thin, and I spotted Yosef and the rabbi at the end of the procession, urging people to move quickly. Pulling out my phone, I noted the time: five fifty-nine.