TAKEDOWN

by Anna Murray

  Jane pushed the power button, tossed the remote on the coffee table. She had leads on two jobs. It was hard to put Valley View Web Design on her resume, hard to explain that, yes, she was the surviving employee, but no, she wasn't involved in any drug dealing. She thought about leaving it off completely, but then she'd have a gaping hole in work experience to explain. It was hard enough to get through explanation of her year of recuperation from the accident. Jane flipped her legs to the floor and sat up. She figured an enlightened employer would take a chance on her. As a last resort, she'd play the pity card -- something she hated to do -- but a job was a job.

  She thought about Jack. She hoped he was okay. He had Buddy, and his bike, if he retrieved it from the Maplewood police. She didn't expect to hear from him. On the off chance, though, she'd left her new phone number on his answering machine, "in case you want to talk." She reminded herself that ninety-five percent of her first dates didn't convert to a second one.

  * * *

  Ricardo “Dick” Venzela was struck with disbelief when his friend Dan Decker called him in a panic. At first he couldn’t believe it. A Ponzi scheme? His friend Decker had been the model of integrity and philanthropy.

  Decker promised to make him whole. He had Dick’s money, he said, and he’d transfer it to Dick’s account, but of course it had to be done quickly.

  After he got over the initial shock of it all, Dick felt sick. Sick with anger and grief. Never mind his own personal loss -- his beloved Chelton College would take a hit, and a crippling one at that. Most of the endowment was locked up in Decker’s funds!

  Dick Venzela had matriculated as a full scholarship kid at Chelton, and the education and network there had given him the leg up he’d needed to succeed in his life.

  Finally, he felt the grip of fear. Dick had recruited his wealthy Miami friends, most from the Cuban community, to invest in Decker Funds. One thing led to another, and even high officials in the Cuban government invested, hiding behind aliases. All had now lost a great deal of money. They’d blame him of course. Dick Venzela, along with his college buddy, Dan Decker, had big targets on their backs.

  It was then that he realized what he had to do to save himself, so he agreed to help Decker leave the country. He’d go too. How he’d miss his exclusive Key Biscayne home on Harbor Point Drive, but he’d not be relocating to the same place as Decker. Oh, no. As long as Dick Venzela controlled Decker he had his pass, his ‘get-out-of-jail’ card. Decker had betrayed him, and he would make sure Decker got his “Double-D”: A double-dose of gothic justice.

  Chapter 26

  "Senor!"

  Dan Decker woke to guard's baton whacking against the bars of his cage.

  "La Cena. Supper." A metal tray slid through a slot above the crumbling cement floor.

  Dan opened his eyes and stared at the gray wall. He was still in Hades. At first he'd been forced to share a cell with common criminals -- pedophiles, drug dealers, and murderers. Then, after two brutal weeks, he'd been moved from the beatings and fights for scant food rations to this six by eight foot rat and cockroach-infested palace.

  "Pedro, por favor."

  The guard eyed him with contempt. "No por favor. You are an enemy of the people, Senor Decker."

  Double D tried to shake off the nightmare, but this was real. He'd been tricked. His Florida neighbor and friend, Venzela, had led him to believe he was flying to Argentina, but instead the plane landed in Cuba, which was very bad for Dan Decker.

  Officials at the highest levels in Cuban government had invested in his funds through their proxies, and they were mad. Habanero, hot-enough-to-melt-silver mad. A judicial farce followed. Dan, dubbed "El Ladron", was indicted for stealing the "people's money". What a joke it was -- as if their dear leader had never stolen from the people! Then he was accused of collaborating with the CIA to destroy the regime.

  All lies, of course, but the result was imprisonment in Boniato prison, the blue ribbon winner of all hells. Decker's toilet was a stinking hole in the floor that often overflowed, and left waste covering the cement. Mosquitos, flies, roaches, and lizards plagued him daily. He was sure to die of malaria if a stomach parasite didn't get him first. Dan figured he'd lost thirty pounds in three weeks.

  "Por favor, Pedro. Tell my wife I'm dead."

  "I'll make the request, senor."

  "Gracias, Pedro."

  "De nada. The American radio says your wife blames you for the death of the son."

  "Don't believe everything you hear, Pedro." Dan picked up the tray of rotten food, and, trying to not look at the dirt under his fingernails, he flicked a roach from the piece of bread.

  If he could find a way to kill himself . . .

  Chapter 27

  Jack Anderson donned a maroon-and-gold flannel shirt and a clean pair of blue jeans. He checked his hair three times in the mirror. Almost an afterthought, he slipped the gold ring off his left hand and dropped it on the counter. "You'll always be a part of my heart, Jill, but I have to offer myself to someone else who needs me. I think you'd like her." He patted Buddy and grabbed the bright paper bag from the kitchen counter on the way out the door. "Wish me luck, Pal."

  Jack drove through drizzle and then swirling snow that was the moving tapestry of winter in Minnesota, his Subaru sure-footing it to the agreed-upon meeting place: Dunn Brothers on Grand.

  As luck had it, he ended up driving around the block twice, while dodging students crossing from the nearby college. Once he found a parking spot, he climbed over a dirty snow bank to get onto the sidewalk. He was five minutes late, irritated, and his feet were wet. Damn. He'd wanted to make a good impression.

  She was waiting at a table near the back of the narrow coffee shop. She was prettier than he remembered. Her long brown hair was thick and shiny, and he could see she'd put on makeup. Hip hugging jeans and a tight blue sweater were orchestrated for a casual-but-sexy appearance. His eyes flitted over subdued curves. Perfect waist-to-hip ratio, he told himself.

  "Hey." She waved and smiled tentatively as he approached and slid into the chair opposite her.

  He tamped down the rush of emotion washing over him. "Hey. How've you been?" Keep it light. Keep it cool. He sat down and placed the gift at his feet.

  "OK. I'm staying with my sister for a while." He felt her cross her legs under the table. "They broke into my apartment. Honest to God, it looked like a bull moose ran through followed by a zamboni. They threw dishes and glasses out of the cabinets and crushed them into bread crumbs on the floor."

  "Sorry to hear that."

  "Yeah. It was just a place to live, you know. It wasn't like I had an emotional attachment to it. But you, are you OK? I worried about you, you know, having to get over shooting the bad guy."

  "They gave me a therapist. I've had some trouble sleeping, but, anyway, the insomnia started after I lost my wife, so nothing new to me." He looked up at the drink menu on the wall. "Can I get you something?"

  "Skinny latte and a scone."

  Jack rose and pulled his wallet from his pocket. Jane was behind him as they approached the counter to order, and he hoped she was checking him out. She'd once confided she was a "backside" woman, and he'd worn the tightest corduroys he owned, to show off his assets.

  Leaning against a display case, he queried offhandedly, "you working?"

  "I've got a few leads."

  "Ah."

  Then their order was up, and they balanced cups and plates back to the table.

  Jane slid into her seat and tipped the coffee cup to her lips. "They make the best java here."

  "I agree."

  "You still planning to race your bike at Winter Carnival?"

  He flashed his best smile. "I don't know. It seems anticlimactic after the ride with you."

  She winked seductively. "That's what all my men say."

  "I bet." He took a sip of courage and reached down for the gift. "Speaking of that, I never got to know you when we weren't both stressed. I'd, I'd like a chance to do tha
t. I realize I was hard on you when we were last together, and I've been thinking about it. I wasn't entirely fair. I want -- if you want it -- to give us a second chance." His mind had dwelled on it the past weeks, and he'd even mentioned it to Claire. She'd insisted a young, single, and celibate woman would have been embarrassed by the email to his wife, and probably too flustered to respond, even if only to correct the sender. He'd decided Mrs. Hill was right, and Jane had no way of knowing he was trying to save his faltering marriage.

  Jane looked surprised. "You want to be friends? Like we see each other?"

  "I was hoping for that, and more." He pushed his present across the table." A little something for you."

  Jane gingerly opened the bag and began to laugh."Flip flops. Pink? "

  "Hey, they fit me. It isn’t easy to find the damn things this time of year, but Target had them in the women’s section. I think you need a new way to measure a man."

  "I don't know what to say." Her hand went up to her head, but Jack reached out and grabbed it and held on.

  "Say you want to give it a try, ok?" He held her eyes in his gaze. "It seems I have a thing for women named 'Nelson'." He brought her hand to his lips and brushed a soft kiss across her wrist. "We have a lot in common. And my dog likes you."

  "Oh. Well, that seals it." Tears threatened, and her lips trembled.

  He saw she was restraining her emotions, and it pleased him much more than he'd expected. "Absolutely. I want to learn the mundane stuff -- your favorite color and your favorite ice cream --"

  "Or where's the craziest place I've ever done it." She grinned and rubbed her nose.

  "I'm not sure I want the details on that." Jack reddened slightly. "Look, I'm going on sabbatical starting this summer, and I have a research opportunity at Yale. Jane, I want you to go along with me."

  She hesitated. "It sounds like a good opportunity for you."

  "It's a good chance for you, too. I looked up temp jobs out there, and I found five straightaway, and all looked like possibilities for you. You'll get to know the ordinary, boring side of me." His white knuckles gripped the cardboard ring around his cup.

  "I'll think about it."

  "Great. Take a rain check on deciding. I can wait." He relaxed visibly.

  She nodded. "OK."

  "Jane, I want to make each day count from now until then."

  "Me too. You never know what's in the cards."

  "No kidding. What are you doing this afternoon?"

  Epilogue

  14 January 1997

  Market Newswire: The markets were halted for thirty minutes at 1 pm today. A power outage at a major exchange was cited as the official cause, but reports from market insiders indicate that Alba Financial software code was being tested for system integrity and reliability.

  Alba Financial Software Group is the leading provider of algorithmic trading solutions for Wall Street brokerages. Alba was recently in the news when Brent Van Demeer, Managing Director of the Quantitative Group, was killed in his penthouse apartment . . .

  Bonus Read: Excerpt from Anna Murray's debut novel, Unbroken Hearts

  Copyright, 2008, all rights reserved.

  Unbroken Hearts

  by Anna Murray

  Prologue

  July 1868

  Montana Territory

  Sarah Anders soldiered up the trail, her brow creased with pain, exhaustion, and frustration. Even the buffalo grass, clinging to balding wheel ruts, was betting against her.

  She slowed, and her green eyes slid back along the wagon track to settle on a splitting shoe seam. Tugging soberly at loose brown tresses that hung about her oval face, she considered her dim prospects.

  A scant hour had passed since the trainmaster had brutally culled them from the string; now the remnant rumbled away into a vast horizon, oxen toiling heartily, straining against canvas-covered box wagons in their attempt to escape the hellish heat. A half-mile distant, Sarah could hear Charles Petit's voice pounding out a bass murmur. It was punctuated by the hiss of snapping whips drifting back like sharp accusations.

  "Keep the pace! Yer draggin' us back!"

  She smiled bleakly at the memory of "Cap'n Chawles". A burly-boned bull and stern as a schoolmarm, with a lump of tobacco packed firmly in cheek, he was true to the nickname. Ghastly lips gushed oil between gaps in his black teeth, and the captain's low growls paralyzed every soul, right down to little Lars Bentsen.

  Thus it was when Uncle Orv's wagon hit a hole and came up lame. Petit cussed. In a hastily-called wagon council meeting four weary men caved to his decision: Sarah, her sister Emily, uncle Orv and cousin Joey would be left behind to make repairs as Petit's flock moved on. The halted party was left to catch up as best it could.

  Sarah stared at the waving grass, shy prairie dogs, and buzzing insects surrounding the broken-down rig. Sighing, she lifted her mud-caked skirt and made her way over uneven ground to the makeshift camp where pot-bellied Orv grunted and rose from a squat alongside the wagon.

  Orv's hungry eyes squinted as he raked her rail-thin form. She stood warily at a distance, squaring herself to blunt his anger. Better me than Emily, she thought.

  "Gal, don't jis stand there!" Orv flung a hammer though the air. It landed three feet short of his target. "Git yerself an' that good-for-nuthin' chit down ta' dat water. We's got shirts need washin'."

  Sarah bowed her head slightly. She'd spent eight of her nineteen years with this ginned-up guardian. She knew better than to argue.

  She spun on her heel and hailed Emily.

  Em was intent on braiding blades of grass. Sarah waved again and caught the child's gaze. She signaled the order to collect dirty shirts and trousers. In short order Emily was twisting pants and shirts into a ball she tucked tightly against her chest.

  Sarah ventured a glance at Orv, who was busy shoveling a batch of grief to his son. Recalling the lazy stream they'd passed, she stole the opportunity to grab their last sliver of lye soap and two towels. A proper wash would surely mend her mood, she thought.

  Orv was cursing over the toolbox when the girls slipped away.

  Sarah and Emily wandered over a rise and down a hill, where they were welcomed by rough growth hugging a lazy stream. Pausing at the steep bank, Sarah winked playfully at Emily.

  "I say we shuck and wash ourselves first."

  "You bet!" Emily eagerly bobbed and dropped the burdensome laundry. They stripped down to drawers and camisoles, and gingerly waded into the cool water. Shivering like new colts as they stood in the sunless shelter of the scrub pine bank they giggled through chattering teeth and splashed their arms, legs, and faces. Emily's blond mane and Sarah's deep cinnamon flew like pennants on the warm breeze.

  "Captain Petit said we'll be safe?" Emily's hands plumbed the water and spun tiny whirlpools.

  Sarah smiled at the tiny hands and voice. "Truly. No Indians," she cooed as she ran the soap up an arm and rubbed.

  Indeed it was hard to let go of the nagging fear. Every night on the trail they'd observed the men taking precautions to ward off a surprise attack. The camp was made in the open, in the shape of a large circle. Oxen, horses, and dogs were placed outside the circle, and the resulting arrangement looked like a western corral. Guards were assigned, and these were changed three times during the night.

  Suddenly a shout pierced through the howling wind. The sisters froze and strained forward. Joey? More shouts came, undeciperable, but the gunshots that followed needed no translation.

  Emily blanched. Her blue eyes flew wide with terror, and her throat tightened around a strangled sound.

  "Hush!" Sarah exhaled.

  Needles pricked painfully as she grabbed at a tree branch, and sticky pine tar coated her hand. Wincing, Sarah pulled and scrambled out of the water, straight up the steep bank. She seized onto Emily's hand, half-dragging the young girl behind her.

  They reached flat ground and found their clothing. Four shaking hands worked frantically, pulling dresses over soaked drawers and camiso
les.

  "Get down!" ordered Sarah.

  The girls slid onto their bellies, and inch-by-inch, like ants, they crawled up the hill until they could see the trail. Sarah kept Emily close at her side, shushing her every few feet. Upon making the top she pulled Emily behind the cover of a large rock.

  Without a second thought, Sarah threw her damp, sticky body over her sister and burrowed her half into hot dirt. An eternity seemed to pass before she stoked up the courage to peer around the rock edge and down the brushy slope.

  Then she pushed up, and breath rushed from her at the sight that unfolded below. Two ugly, leering men pawed through their possessions, which had been tossed haphazardly off the wagon.

  Her eyes collided with the worst of it: Splayed lifelessly on the ground were Uncle Orv and Joey.

  Oh my God. Oh my God. Sarah sucked in short, ragged gasps.

  Over her hammering heart she heard snippets of bandit conversation, riding on stiff gusts up the gentle slope. Sarah's quaking knees pushed to get a better look at the outlaws.

  "Where'd da' sonofabitch keep his money?" spat a ruddy-looking man. His appearance was mean; a scar traced straight across his neck where he'd been hard-bitten by a hangman's rope.

  "Ya' check dem bodies?" This erupted from a shorter, bulgy-eyed man.

  Sarah's eyes burned with helpless anger at the plundering. The older man unhitched and slapped old Buck and Whistler. As the oxen trotted away she noted that two fingers were missing from the man's right hand.

  The murdering devil-banter continued as Sarah shifted and dragged her feet to a squat position.

  "Yay . . . here 'tis, bottom o' da' tool box . . . jus' twenty-five dollar. Damn it! What dem thinkin' totin' puny cash?"

  "Lookie, dis' fiddle be worth somethin'!"