by Lakes, Lynde
Published by Evernight Publishing at Smashwords
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2014 Lynde Lakes
ISBN: 978-1-77130-845-8
Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs
Editor: Lisa Petrocelli
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
I dedicate my heart and this book to my husband, John.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many thanks to my Evernight Publisher Stacey Adderley and acquisitions manager, Marie Buttineau. And, of course, to my Evernight editor Lisa Petrocelli and cover artist Sour Cherry Designs.
Appreciation also to the staff at Aina Haina & Kapolei Libraries.
And last but not least, my loyal and supportive readers, now friends.
DEADLY INFLUENCE
Lynde Lakes
Copyright © 2014
Chapter One
California
The leisurely lunch and shopping trip to Los Angeles with her nephew’s wife, Shirley, had failed to ward off Meta Corning’s uneasiness about the frightening after-midnight phone calls. The eighty-year-old matriarch of the Corning Estate clung tighter to Shirley’s arm as they approached the crowded Broadway crosswalk.
When the pedestrian sign clicked to a halt, Shirley pulled away and dug for something in her purse. Meta shivered at the loss of contact. Last night the caller had said, “Death will come swiftly.”
Meta closed her eyes, searching for a calm place. Although Shirley’s carefree mood all afternoon had kept her from dwelling on those words, now they plagued her. She forced them away. Think only of Shirley, she told herself. Shirley was always more fun when she was away from the stress of being a wife and mother—and away from her husband, “Tyrant Tom.”
People closed in around Meta, separating her from Shirley. “Shirley,” Meta called, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. She glanced back. The barricade of people—all heads taller than her diminutive five feet—looked at down at her with stern, impatient expressions. Shirley was nowhere in sight.
The crowd inched forward, pressing Meta to the edge of the curb. Cars and trucks roared through the intersection far too close, whipping the air, increasing her trepidation. A bus in the curbside lane barreled toward the intersection. Meta tried to step back, but a big hand on her back stopped her retreat and shoved her into the street. She flailed her arms, but her clawing fists failed to grab anything but empty air.
Chapter Two
Redlands, California
Feeling no pain, thanks to the shot Dr. Hendricks had given her, Meta Corning rode beside her ruggedly handsome widowed neighbor, Howard West, in his shiny red truck. Lisa Dixon and Meta’s grown grandson, Bud, followed in his hopped-up Thunderbird. Meta shook her head. Bud had made his dislike of Lisa known loud and clear. They were like oil and water, and Meta hoped they wouldn’t get into it again. The young female bodyguard put up with a lot to keep their secret… and the peace.
Howard reached over and patted Meta’s hand. She smiled, pleased that he had insisted upon driving her home. When she was in the car, he drove nice and slow. And bless him, he seemed to sense that she was still too drugged and drained to talk. They were the kind of friends who enjoyed silent companionship as much as lively conversation. Sometimes she wished they were more than friends.
She lay back against the headrest, sighed, and counted her blessings. Six weeks ago, an alert, quick-acting bus driver managed to stop before his wheels crushed her skull. That alone was miraculous. Then, two weeks ago, the Lord gave her another miracle and let her survive a mild stroke without permanent damage.
The doctor warned that for a week or so she would need stress-free bed rest. At least she would be home, where she could have some control over her life. While in the hospital, she had had no say, no peace, and she desperately missed Gulliver, her feline companion for over thirteen years. She had named him Gulliver, because he gallivanted all over the neighborhood.
Howard turned in to Meta’s long, expansive driveway, and a subdued joy warmed her heart. Home. When Howard stopped at the entrance, she smiled—until she spied Gulliver’s bloody little body, spread-eagled, and nailed to the front door.
With a crazed strength, Meta shoved the truck door open. She stumbled out, then she was running up the steps, screaming. Raw shrieks tore at her throat, and then everything went black .
Virginia
The click, click of the windshield wipers heightened Jay Corning’s tension. He studied Frank Dorsey, the rail-thin form hunched over the steering wheel, and winced. Six months’ incarceration in a Bosnian prison had taken its toll. At least he had managed to get them both out of the country with their lives.
Jay glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time, then back at Frank. The trip from Langley Air Force Base to the airport in Norfolk was a long jaunt for someone still recovering from surgeries, but Frank had insisted upon seeing him off to give them a little more time together before they went their separate ways. Frank squinted to make out the contour of the twisting road through the sheets of rain, and wiped his hand across a face that was all angles and bone.
“Damn it, Frank,” Jay said, “you shouldn’t be driving. Let me take over.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Frank drawled, “we’re almost there.”
Jay shook his head. To win the argument, he would have to wrestle his buddy out of the seat, and that would do more harm than good. He patted his inside jacket pocket to assure himself that his commercial airline tickets to California were still there. With time a premium, he couldn’t waste it waiting to catch a military hop to March Air Force Base. It was too bad. The base, located on the outskirts of Riverside, was only a hop and a skip from his final destination—Redlands. He glanced at his itinerary. After making connections, he would arrive at Ontario Airport about midnight, pick up the Chevy passenger van he had reserved, and then head for home—and trouble.
“Wonder how Bud will take my little surprise visit.”
“Let someone else handle him.”
The knot in Jay’s gut tightened. “Cousin Tom wouldn’t have called me if he could’ve dumped this enforcer role on anyone else. There’s too much bad blood between us. I suspect the only reason he contacted me is he believes only a family member with combat training and guts can handle my street-brawler brother.”
“Your Cousin Tom sounds like a button pusher. Why haven’t you mentioned him before?”
“He isn’t my favorite topic. Cousin Tom has never kept in touch, except to ask for money. The bastard wouldn’t even have bothered to tell me about Grandma Meta’s stroke, except it backed up his claim of a desperate situation.”
“Why didn’t another family member contact you about your grandma?”
“That’s one of the things I intend to find out.” It had been six weeks since the close call with the Los Angeles city bus, followed by the stroke a week later. “I was unreachable for the three weeks during the Bosnia rescue mission, but damn it, before that someone could have reached me.”
“Cool down, Lieutenant Unflappable.”
“It’s the damn unknowns, like Grandma’s exact condition and how much danger she’s in. According to Tom, Grandma believes a man is stalking her, and she’s convinced that he pushed her into the path of a bus. Tom’s wife apparently saw just the last seconds of it a
nd can only verify that the driver screeched the tires to a halt a mere six inches from Grandma’s head.”
“Whew,” Frank said. “No wonder you’re in such an all-fired hurry to get home.”
Jay raked his hair back with rigid fingers. “Tom exaggerates, but if even half of it is true—” Jay looked down at his bruised knuckles again. “Anyway, until I can talk to Grandma, I’m flying blind.”
They drove silently for a few minutes.
“What did the major say when you asked for a thirty-day leave?” Frank asked.
“He said my short-term leave was no problem, but warned that I need to return to Langley for my special operations briefing in three and a half weeks or my promotion and overseas assignment are down the tubes. So, if I miss the special ops meeting, I lose out. Period. He was crystal clear on that.”
“Well,” Frank said, without taking his attention off the road, “knowing you, you’d go help your grandma even if you had to sprout wings and fly there like a bird. And you’ll stay as long as needed, regardless of the loss.” A somber expression clouded Frank’s gray eyes, and he shook his head. “You’re a sucker for people in trouble. You even risked your life for a bag of bones like me.”
Jay patted his friend’s shoulder. “That’s what we joined up for, good buddy, to crush the bullies who force oppression and threaten our freedom. And now I have to handle the bully in my own backyard.”
“I almost feel sorry for the bastard.” Frank’s laugh was hollow, joyless.
Frank hadn’t had much to laugh about lately. War—cold or otherwise—was no laughing matter. Jay knew the trouble that lay ahead on his own home front wouldn’t be a laughing matter either.
When the two air force comrades reached the airport, Frank parked and accompanied Jay as far as the security checkin area. Eager to get the difficult good-bye over quickly, Jay stuck out his hand. Frank grasped it tightly and then pulled him into a fierce embrace. Jay stiffened, stunned first by the public display of emotion, and then by the shock of his friend’s bony frame, a chilling reminder of the f’n nightmare Frank had survived—near starvation, beatings, and attempted brainwashing. Jay closed his eyes briefly and allowed his awareness of the horrors his friend had endured to pass. Then he returned the hug wholeheartedly. Finally, Jay pulled away, his throat tight. He blinked and, with his thumb and forefinger, wiped the excess moisture from the inner corners of his eyes. To cover his damned sappy behavior, he roughly hoisted his carry-on bags onto the conveyor belt. He emptied his pockets and passed through the security entry portal without as much as a backward glance.
“Good luck,” Frank called as Jay grabbed his belongings from the inspection table and headed for the boarding gate.
The thickness in his buddy’s voice brought a new rush of moisture to Jay’s eyes. He waved, still without looking back. If he looked back, he might blubber like a kid. They had been through hell and back, Frank’s next assignment was in Georgia, and only God knew when—or if—their paths would cross again.
Jay landed at Ontario Airport on schedule, picked up the keys for the six-speed Chevy Equinox van he had reserved, and then walked out into the comfortable, moonlit, balmy night to locate Space 19 and the van. A breeze ruffled his hair. God, he had missed California—the cool, breezy nights, and warm, sunny days.
He located the van at the end of the second row. He had specified darkened windows and four-wheel drive. The darkened windows would keep his identity secret for awhile, and the four-wheel drive would come in handy if he needed to chase an intruder through Grandma’s orange groves. He didn’t stow anything in the rear storage. He wanted everything handy. He stripped off his wool-lined jacket and threw it into the passenger seat next to his blue duffel bag and black Stetson.
Frank’s words, “good luck,” had stayed with Jay since their parting. He would need good luck to deal with his big brother, Bud. Damn the bad timing! Damn Bud! If Bud was pressuring Grandma… Jay tightened his jaw, and with every gesture hard and angry, he climbed behind the steering wheel, buckled his seat belt, and turned the key in the ignition. The lights, air conditioning, and radio came on. He lowered the volume on the blaring rock station, then fiddled with the dial until he found something low and mellow to soothe his twitching nerves. In the glow from the dashboard lights, Jay looked down at his knuckles, permanently bruised, scarred, and enlarged from all the old battles. He didn’t care which method it took to clue Bud in. Whether it be tough talk or physical persuasion, he‘d see that Grandma stayed safe.
Jay had called Dr. Manson, the attending physician, before he left Langley, and the doc said that the stroke had been mild and there was no reason not to expect a full recovery. Nevertheless, he needed to see her condition for himself. But he had to play it cool. According to Tom, it might take a battering ram to get into the house past Bud. There was no way Jay would force his way in at the onset. Charging in like Rambo—using hard tactics—would kick up a ruckus, and he refused to upset his grandma in her fragile condition.
If all went as he expected, he would pull up in front of Grandmother’s turn-of-the-century Victorian mansion about 1:30 a.m., sleep in the van until dawn, and then see what developed.
He veered onto the eastbound I-10 on-ramp and then drove on Automatic, knowing the freeway as if he had never left the area. Brightly lit roadside businesses blinked a welcome as he neared his destination. A sign announced the Redlands off-ramps. An emotional swelling in his chest caught him off-guard as he approached his old stomping grounds. He hadn’t been prepared for the strong emotion of coming home.
He left the freeway and turned down a sparsely traveled lane. Bright moonlight sent a luminous glow over the familiar Redlands countryside of orange groves and sprawling manors. Before he even reached the long driveway to his grandma’s mansion, he saw startling changes. The flag section of the Corning Estate orange grove that once screened the residence from the road was pruned back ruthlessly with the trees on the edge of the grove actually uprooted, leaving dead land between the road and the house.
A half-completed natural rock wall surrounded the property. New security lighting lit up the latticed wraparound porch. In the brightness, Jay noticed that someone had recently painted the mansion. The current colors were several shades lighter than he remembered. Was Bud behind the changes? Did they have something to do with impressing Bud’s little live-in “piece of fluff?”
Damn. Tom might be right about Bud’s motivations. But experience had taught Jay not to jump the gun. He hadn’t always been so cautious. Before joining the Air Force, if someone even glanced at him wrong, he was ready to fight. He had fought for parents who didn’t deserve it, for the good family name, and for a brother who was constantly in trouble. In the military, he had quickly learned what his grandmother had been trying to teach him all along—to use his head first. Now, fighting was a last resort.
Jay parked across the street from the entrance of the Corning Estate and peered down the long driveway. His throat constricted. Home. Few people were raised in a mansion with an onion dome that was a smaller version of the dome on St. Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow. The unique structural design had always fascinated him, and not just because his great-grandfather, a carpenter, had built the mansion with his own hands. As a kid, Jay hadn’t seen it as the exquisite architecture that it was. He’d seen it as a challenge, something to master and claim as his own. But when he tried to climb the slick facade, he’d slipped and broken his arm. His grandfather, in his crotchety twang, had said it was lucky he didn’t break his “damned fool neck.”
Smiling, Jay unzipped his duffel bag, removed his binoculars and infrared single-lens scope, and laid them on the dashboard. He doubted he’d use them tonight, as all seemed quiet, but the motto drilled into him was, “Always be prepared.” He was alive because he believed in it and he lived it.
Jay shifted restlessly behind the steering wheel. Lord, he was tired. He would be more alert if he caught a few winks. He balled up his bulky jacket to use as a
pillow. He didn’t expect to sleep long.
Jay awoke with a start at the rumble of construction trucks, and bolted upright. Forgetting for a moment where he was, he reached for his M249 SAW machine gun. When his hands closed on empty air, it all came back to him. He was no longer in Bosnia, no longer had an assault weapon beside him. He was on a personal mission to protect his grandmother. He glanced at his watch. It was already 7:30 a.m. He must have really been beat to sleep so late. He was usually an early riser.
Within minutes, bricklayers swarmed the yard and started to work on the wall. Jay watched awhile, wondering what it all meant. One of the workers entered a portable toilet. Suddenly Jay’s bladder felt like it might burst. When the man went back to work, Jay slipped out of his van and used the facility. Feeling much better, he returned and resumed his surveillance.
At eight o’clock, a security service van pulled into the driveway and stopped near the mansion. A helluva lot was going on. Two guys wearing tool belts got out of the truck carrying canvas bags and went to the door. Jay couldn’t see who let them in. If he could catch a glimpse of Bud’s woman, it might explain some things. Tom had described her as a “cunt” with a stripper body, honey-blonde hair, and a pert little nose. Then his cousin had added, “If she’s a nurse, I’ll eat my hat.”
Jay shook his head. Cousin Tom was a disrespectful bastard with a way of speaking in clichés. When he’d telephoned him, it was “on the behalf of the family,” because something was “rotten in Denmark.” That something “rotten” was his older brother, Bud, who had moved in with Grandma and “taken the reins” after she’d suffered a mild stroke. According to Tom, Bud had fired the housekeeper, the groundskeeper, and even the nurse Tom had hired. Now he was trying to pass off his “little trollop” as the new nurse. Most troubling was the way Bud had cut Grandma off from all contact with the rest of the family. He refused to permit visits or phone calls, claiming she just wasn’t up to it. Tom believed that Bud’s ploy was to isolate Grandma and intimidate her into changing her will, making Bud the principal beneficiary of her estate.