MYSTERY THRILLER DOUBLE PLAY BOX SET (Two full-length novels)

by Osborne, Jon

  Her. Ugly old Helen Morgan who’d always been so deathly afraid of her own shadow.

  Helen straightened her posture and cleared her throat forcefully before answering in an assertive voice that sounded foreign even to her own ears. Still, no point in pretending that she liked Grolsch anymore. No point in continuing to kiss the old bag’s ass, either, considering the happy fact that today would mark her very last day of toil in this godforsaken hellhole of a workplace. “Yes, ma’am,” Helen answered, feeling her own spirits lift several notches at the supremely welcome thought that freedom lay just around the corner for her. “What have you got for me on the schedule today?”

  Grolsch glanced back down at the clipboard on the counter in front of her, then checked the thin gold watch strapped around her meaty right wrist. “The Paulson birth in Room 1A. Scheduled induction by way of our dear old friend pitocin. Big stuff.”

  “How far along is she now?”

  Grolsch raised her overly plucked eyebrows and examined her watch again, rapidly tapping the tiny glass face with her left index finger. “Four centimeters at last measurement fifteen minutes ago, so you’d better get scrubbed up and in there to relieve Maura. The poor thing looks like she’s dead on her feet this morning. Must have had herself one hell of a weekend.”

  Helen nodded, then turned on her heel and left the front desk, marching briskly down the hall toward the scrub-room. She suppressed a small grin while she walked despite the extreme sourness in her stomach that made her mouth taste as though she’d just touched the tip of her tongue directly to the business end of a Duracel battery. Maura Jacobs certainly hadn’t been the only one to have herself one hell of a weekend, though, that much was for sure. Not by a long shot.

  Reaching the deep-sink in the far corner of the scrub-room several moments later, Helen lathered up her arms all the way to the elbows with the pump-dispensed, anti-bacterial soap, humming softly to herself beneath her breath in an effort to calm her badly jangled nerves while she mentally ran through the list of tasks she needed to accomplish today.

  All of the steps seemed fairly routine to her – nothing too far out of the ordinary when compared to the normal things she did every other day at work. Save for the last step, of course. When the time came to execute that particularly crucial step, it was then where she’d really need to watch her back.

  To be the courageous woman Nicholas so clearly believed her to be.

  Finally finishing up in the scrub-room ninety seconds later, Helen made her way back down the hall and pushed open the door to Room 1A. Twenty feet away, the anesthesiologist was just putting the finishing touches on Ann Marie Paulson’s epidural, sliding a wickedly long needle out of the base of the young woman’s spine while the local beauty sat balanced on the edge of her hospital bed with her smooth, unmarked back facing Helen, shapely legs featuring pretty, painted toes at the ends swinging a foot high off the gleaming tiled floor.

  Helen fought back the sudden, hateful grimace that threatened to crack her face clean in half at the highly unwelcome sight in front of her, praying that the extreme disgust she felt inside didn’t reach her eyes. Room 1A had always been reserved for VIPs, checking in several levels above the other rooms on the floor in both the quality of amenities it offered and the amount of staff-attention it garnered. And the breathtakingly, jaw-droppingly, stunningly gorgeous Ann Marie Paulson was nothing if she wasn’t a VIP.

  A Very Irritating Person.

  Helen stepped farther into the oversized room and stretched her stress-stiffened neck, despising the self-satisfied little bitch with all her heart and soul already. And why the hell shouldn’t she despise Ann Marie Paulson? Some women really did have things just too goddamn easy in this life. To Helen, Ann Marie Paulson represented every perky little cheerleader that had ever caught the handsome football captain’s eye. Every self-assured little ingénue that had ever had the door to a restaurant held open for her even though she’d still been thirty yards away from the entrance and making her way slowly across the parking lot at the time. Everything Helen Morgan had never been.

  Someone who actually mattered to the people around her.

  But that shit was about to change. In a big way. After all, why should the beautiful people get to have all the fun?

  Moving purposefully across the room with her teeth clamped down tight enough to make her jaw throb, Helen pulled on a fresh pair of latex gloves with a loud elastic snap that caused Sheila Mendenhall, Laura Andrews and Maura Jacobs to look up at her and smile. Maura – she of the extremely busy weekend that Ellen Grolsch had so recently expounded upon – then left the room, no doubt eager to go sleep off the remnants of her own overexertions at home in the comfort of her own bed.

  From there, the next hour proved routine, even boring at times. A bunch of yelling and screaming as Ann Marie Paulson pushed and grunted and breathed her way through the entirely banal ordeal of childbirth with her ridiculously supple legs spread three feet apart and suspended in sturdy metal stirrups.

  The baby finally came with a wet explosion of placenta at precisely 9:17 a.m. Helen shuddered as she transferred the shimmering red afterbirth in a sterile metal tray to Dr. Smith’s work cart, having never gotten particularly used to this particularly gross part of the job. Nothing went to waste in the hospital, though. Umbilical cords, placentas, various other slimy odds and ends associated with the so-called “miracle of birth” that had now occurred approximately one hundred billion times since the dawn of human history: just about everything that could be exploited to make a quick buck on the medical-research market was exploited. The laughably commercial American healthcare system at work for no one to see but the “privileged” few insiders unlucky enough to be privy to such unsavory things.

  Ten feet away, Dr. Harold Smith rose to his feet from his short stool positioned in front of Ann Marie Paulson’s still-spread thighs and pulled off his own bloodstained gloves with a similar snapping noise while Sheila Mendenhall and Laura Andrews attended to the mucus-suctioning of the bouncing baby boy that Mrs Paulson had just squeezed out into the world, still sans the silver spoon that Helen had very little doubt would soon be inserted into his greedy, newborn mouth.

  Helen thought again about the complete unfairness of the world as she busied herself cleaning up the disgusting aftermath. Under normal circumstances, the baby would have been a very lucky boy, indeed, with his software-king father Zachary Paulson footing all of his bills from the cradle to the grave.

  Then again, these weren’t normal circumstances, now were they?

  Not hardly.

  The elderly doctor stretched his sagging-though-somehow-still-tan neck and checked the clipboard attached to his work cart by a short length of plastic cord. “Looks like this little guy’s scheduled for a circumcision today, Helen. Hell of a way to greet the world, huh? Anyway, would you bring him in to me in a few minutes or so? I know it’s a little sooner than we usually do it but I’ve got a noon tee-time at the club that I really don’t want to miss. Almost got my handicap down to scratch now and there probably aren’t too many days left in the season if this weather keeps going the way it’s been going lately.”

  Fear and anticipation flared in Helen’s chest at the doctor’s words. She hadn’t been expecting to handle the baby’s transportation needs this soon, had thought it would prove infinitely harder to get her hands on the child unsupervised. Still, as Nicholas had told her, if anything out of the ordinary happened today she should simply adapt her movements accordingly. And this should actually make things easier for her to do what she needed to do. This way – so to speak – she could cut out the middleman and sell directly to the consumer. “Of course, doctor,” she said, almost unable to believe the stroke of good fortune that had just slapped her hard across the face and left her ears ringing. “That won’t be any problem at all.”

  Helen watched Dr. Smith leave the room before she turned her attention back to the other two nurses present, who’d now removed Baby Paulson from his m
other’s beautifully developed (though clearly unnaturally enhanced) chest, effectively ending the brief period of kangaroo care that typically followed birth.

  The two women attended to the squirming boy in a fluttering of hands over at the portable plastic crib situated on wheels that was located five feet to the left of Ann Marie Paulson’s hospital bed. Damp cloths wiped at the baby’s skin. Anti-bacterial lotion was slathered onto his still-closed eyelids. A radio monitor was strapped into place around his tiny left ankle.

  When Sheila Mendenhall and Laura Andrews had finished up with all this, Sheila looked over at Helen and smiled again. “All done over here, Helen,” she said. “Ready to take him off our hands?”

  Helen nearly vomited on her own feet. This was it. The moment she’d been waiting for ever since Nicholas had explained his wonderfully daring plan to her on Friday night. The moment she hadn’t known until this very second she’d been waiting for her entire life. “You betcha, Sheila,” Helen breathed, praying to a God she’d never believed in that the nervousness shaking her voice at the moment wasn’t too noticeable. “Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

  Helen’s pounding heartbeat thundered away madly in her ears as she reached the plastic crib and looked down at her newborn son. Hot tears sprang up into her eyes. She was absolutely shocked to find that the initial wave of hatred she’d felt for the boy immediately faded away, replaced at once by the mysterious magic of a mother’s eternal love.

  Wearing a soft cotton cap and bundled up tight, the baby cooed softly, his glistening face marking the single most beautiful sight Helen had ever laid eyes upon in her entire life.

  Just then, the baby’s tiny pink lips curved downward into a slight, heartbreaking frown. Just working out his facial muscles for the first time in his life outside the comforts of the womb, Helen knew, but her chest nonetheless almost caved in on itself from the sheer amount of adoration it brought on inside her. After all these years of never really understanding it, she finally knew exactly what true love felt like. And why not?

  She was a mother now.

  She’d just begun to wheel away the baby’s crib when Ann Marie Paulson’s icy voice stopped her dead in her tracks. “Where the hell do you think you’re taking him?” the woman snapped. The bourgeoisie speaking to the lower class in the clipped manner to which it had grown so accustomed over the years.

  Helen turned her eyes to the hateful woman and locked gazes with Ann Marie Paulson for the first (and thankfully) last time in her life. Blue-green eyes punctuated by dancing flecks of light gray were further illuminated by the bright sunshine that was streaming in through the huge picture window fifteen feet away, staring directly into Helen’s soul. For one terrifying moment, Helen was so lost the inexplicable wonder of the woman’s swirling cobra eyes that she could barely even breathe, believing with all her heart, mind, body and soul that Ann Marie Paulson could see right through her.

  Knew exactly what Helen planned to do.

  “I… I just need to take him for his circumcision,” Helen stammered stupidly, hating herself all the way down to the core of her innermost being for her pathetic lack of self-confidence at this highly critical juncture but still unable to keep it from taking hold of her for the gazillonth time in her sorry excuse for a life. No huge shock there, though. Old habits tended to die hard.

  Just like Ann Marie Paulson would.

  Blissfully, the woman whom Helen had grown to think of as the “birth mother” over the past three days just released an annoyed sigh and closed her hypnotizing eyes, finally freeing Helen from their iron grasp. Then she simply returned her attention to the latest-model iPhone clutched in delicate hands featuring beautifully manicured fingers at the ends. French tips, of course. Nothing but the very best for her.

  Snapped out of her stupor like an overstretched rubber band reaching its limits, Helen fought back another powerful surge of revulsion in her chest at Ann Marie Paulson’s condescending attitude. What the fuck was she, twenty-three? Twenty-two? Nineteen? And even after giving birth the stupid bitch couldn’t take her eyes off her dumb electronic device for even a second? Hell, the child would be better off with Helen and Nicholas. If this marked any indication, which Helen felt quite sure it did, they were actually doing the little guy a favor here. And it was no wonder at all why the father had chosen to not be present at the birth of his son. Who in their right mind would want to spend a millisecond longer with Ann Marie Paulson than they absolutely needed to? Despite her many obvious physical attributes – insignificant, skin-deep characteristics that had no doubt blinded each and every man who’d ever had the great misfortune to drink in the stunning vision of her loveliness until they found themselves stumbling drunkenly around the room and tripping over their own feet with the overwhelming lust she inspired in them – the thoroughly entitled cunt exuded nothing but pure venom from the inside out.

  The arrogant snake deserved what was about to happen to her.

  “Just make sure that you’re extremely careful with him,” Paulson said, not bothering to look up at Helen again while she continued to tap away mindlessly at the keys of her precious phone. “As I’m sure you’re well aware, he’s a highly valuable baby.”

  Helen managed a nod, then crinkled up her face in confusion as she left the room, infinitely happy to finally escape Ann Marie Paulson’s horribly oppressive aura but wondering just what, exactly, the smug woman had meant by her last statement. Probably nothing, but it had nonetheless seemed an odd coincidence to Helen that she’d been thinking the exact same thing herself.

  Making her way quickly to the empty room located directly next door to Room 1A, Helen clicked the metal lock button into place with her thumb and proceeded to remove the baby’s ankle monitor with no trouble at all. And where lay the great surprise in that? She’d put on and removed thousands of these things over the years. Everything was still normal, still routine.

  She still hadn’t broken any laws yet.

  Exiting the room a moment later, she took a deep, chest-expanding breath and held it tight in her lungs as she walked down the hall before passing by the front desk with the baby. Nobody even looked up at them. Thirty seconds later, she simply wheeled the boy right out of the birthing wing on the second floor of the five-level hospital and headed for the elevator.

  Cameras had been positioned all around Fairview General – a measure of protection against the inevitable lawsuits always filed whenever even the slightest thing went wrong – but Helen didn’t feel particularly concerned about them. Why should she? She’d never be returning to this place again.

  True to his word, Nicholas was waiting for her just outside the hospital’s entrance, seated behind the wheel of a non-descript white cargo van and looking just as handsome as ever. He jumped out when he saw Helen emerge from the building and hustled around to slide open the side door for her; every bit the chivalrous knight in shining armor he’d been ever since the wonderful and completely wondrous night seventy-two hours earlier she’d first met him.

  Gathering the baby out of the cradle into his strong arms, Nicholas handed the child over to a woman seated in the backseat of the van before turning around to glance at the automated hospital doors thirty feet away. No one was rushing outside to stop them from pulling off the daring heist they were in the midst of committing. Everything was still normal, still routine.

  Just another day at the office.

  Helen waited until the woman in the back had strapped the now-wailing child into a car seat before she began to climb inside the van herself, more ready than ever to finally start her new life with her new family in a land far, far away from here.

  Nicholas stopped her by placing a hand lightly on her left shoulder. “Helen, my love?” he said softly.

  Helen turned around to face him. The unmistakable look of appreciation in his smoldering brown eyes made her swoon, nearly buckling her knees. After all these years of never knowing a man’s love, of never knowing his gentle touch reserved specifically for
her, she finally understood every last Disney-princess movie she’d ever seen since childhood.

  She’d finally made it.

  “Yes, Nicholas?” she asked in a voice that barely registered above a whisper, searching his warm brown eyes with her own and trying desperately to convey his overpowering love right back to him, wanting him to know exactly how much he meant to her. “What is it?”

  Nicholas widened the smile on his beautiful face. Then, without warning, he cocked back his right arm and smashed Helen directly on the bridge of her nose with all his might. The jarring right cross shattered the bone in half a dozen places, sending a sickening gush of blood rushing down her now-stunned face and knocking her out cold.

  “I’m very sorry, my dear, but I’m afraid that you won’t be accompanying us on our wonderfully exciting voyage today,” Horatio D’Arbinville said, slowly flexing the fingers of his aching right hand while he watched Helen Morgan crumple hard to the pavement before striking the back of her skull violently against the unyielding cement with an audible crack that made even him feel slightly sick to his stomach. “Unfortunately for you, however, this just so happens to be a family matter.”

  CHAPTER 15

  AMC Town Center Westwood Movie Cinema; Rocky River, Ohio; 2:45 p.m.

  Jack stood outside the bustling movie theater fifteen miles west of downtown Cleveland and just four short miles away from St. Christopher’s Catholic Church – scheduled site of the dearly departed Special Agent Dana Whitestone’s impending and highly anticipated funeral today.

  Once again outfitted in his long black trench coat that thankfully didn’t draw too much unwanted attention to his person considering the crisper October weather that had taken hold of northeast Ohio over the past several weeks, he studied the marquee with a careful eye out for any clever political statements he might find himself presented with the opportunity to make.