Assassin's Redemption: Stolen Memories, #1

by Richard Allen Evans

  In the early sixties, baseball was fun — not a pissing contest between millionaire players and billionaire owners. It was all about winning and losing. The simplicity of it all is what Adam missed most. Then again, most things were fun in the early sixties or at the very least, much better. The war changed everything for Adam.

  The injuries he sustained in Southeast Asia tragically robbed him of many of his childhood memories of growing up just a few blocks away from where he now stood. He only had fragments of memories from his pre-teen years. Six months in a coma at a military hospital in Hawaii and two more months of rehabilitation at Walter Reed in Bethesda were the price he paid for being caught in an artillery barrage.

  After a quick trip to the bathroom, with quick being relative to what it meant when he was younger, Adam continued into his kitchen.

  The beige tiled floor was comfortably cool on his bare feet as he pressed start on the coffee maker that he prepared a night earlier. He picked up a remote control and turned on his television and pressed channel seven to watch the morning news on WLS.

  As the weather report was given, Adam reached up into the cabinet and pulled out a slate blue coffee mug.

  There were nights when he did not have a dream related to his wartime experiences. Many of those dreams were familiar but over the years he had one recurring dream about an enemy attack and seeing so many of his friends being killed in a mortar attack. He saw the body of his best friend laying across sandbags.

  “Fullbright bought it,” echoed in his mind. It was the same thing every time he had the dream. Another recurring theme was that he never could remember the face of his best friend – apparently named Fullbright – nor could he remember what this Fullbright looked like.

  The inability to put a face with the memory gnawed at Adam and had for years. He poured himself a cup of coffee and walked over and picked up his laptop computer. Adam then took a seat in his navy blue recliner. He took a sip as he waited for his computer to boot.

  The name Fullbright seemed so familiar. For years it was a thought that was so near and yet just out of his grasp. No matter how hard Adam concentrated, there was never a breakthrough to satisfy his curiosity.

  Placing his coffee mug on the stand next to his chair, he typed in his secure name and password. Adam then logged onto his secure e-mail account on the server for the Chicago office of the U.S. Department of Agriculture.

  “Amazing what can be hidden by bloated bureaucracy,” he thought as he sat about checking and deleting his messages.

  Adam was not and had never been employed by the USDA. It was a safe place to keep up with his business contacts. It didn't hurt that the messages were also coded so that they appeared to be gibberish to the casual reader.

  He scanned the message line of each e-mail for a single word. The fifth message he came to contained the word “Butkus.”

  The key word was selected because of the popularity of the name in Chicago. It would not appear out of place to a curious investigator attempting to track one of the top professionals in the world.

  Adam took a sip of his coffee and clicked on the e-mail sent by his handler. Correction. The e-mail was sent by his agent. Adam had not had a handler for many years. He downloaded the e-mail and finished checking his messages. Seeing nothing else of value, he logged off of the internet and opened the utilities menu.

  After a double-click on an icon titled “Eraser,” Adam dragged the e-mail into the icon and waited five seconds for the decryption program to work its magic. He read the words carefully - an offer from a very old client. He pondered the offer. Some might call $250,000 a generous offer.

  Adam did not.

  He slowly typed out his response:

  “Returning to Tennessee will not be cheap. I require $500,000 plus 25 percent for expenses, paid in advance. You will be notified of any of any other incidentals that might be required. I also cannot emphasize this enough: I work ALONE. There will be no spotter or shooter team. This is non-negotiable. History will not repeat itself.”

  He encrypted the message before e-mailing it to his agent. The agent would take care of the necessary arrangements with the client. For his efforts he would get a 10 percent cut of the final negotiated price - not bad since he would not be taking a risk or actually killing anyone.

  “No,” Adam thought as he closed the laptop and reached for his coffee, “killing is my job.”

  And it was a job that paid well. Over the years he amassed a rather hefty bank account from the contracts he fulfilled both for the government, his original employer, and for various clients in the private sector. Wise investments in the early 1980s had also served to build his fortune.

  The money not only allowed him to have nice apartment on the Northwest side of Chicago, it also paid for him to acquire a Bachelor of Arts degree from Loyola of Chicago, master’s degree in history from the University of Chicago, and a PhD in history from Northwestern. The name on his diploma read “Dr. Adam C. Eastland.” The “C” stood for nothing, it was just something he added to make his name sound dignified.

  Not bad for a kid from a middle class family on the upper northwest side of the Windy City - not bad if one considered how much he had to overcome from the wounds he suffered in Vietnam. Adam believed if he had more than just fragments of childhood memories and had any memories at all of his parents, maybe he would be motivated enough to give up his lucrative trade as a professional assassin and put his PHD to actual use.

  He sipped his coffee and whispered to himself, “Tennessee.”

  ***

  Chet Thurman sat in his patrol car. The white paint was splattered with bits of orange-brown mud. As sheriff of Butcher County, Tennessee, the car was as much his office as the room in the basement of the courthouse. The various notes, green thermos, and assorted sandwich wrappers attested as much.

  Thurman checked his watch - it was almost 11:30 a.m. He picked up the mike for his radio.

  “Dispatch, have we gotten any word on the motorcade recently?” He asked.

  “10-4 Sheriff,” the voice crackled over the radio. “It's running a little late because it's stuck behind a house.”

  “Come again Brenda?” The sheriff asked.

  He could hear laughter in the background as the dispatcher keyed the mike.

  “Somebody's moving a house on Highway 68 in Union County. They've got the westbound lane blocked until they can get to the four-lane,” the dispatcher said

  “Any idea on when that will be?” Chet asked.

  “Highway patrol says maybe another 10 minutes. Homeowner must be a Democrat,” the dispatcher said.

  “Funny. Give me a heads up when they get around that thing,” Thurman said.

  “Roger that Sheriff,” the dispatcher said with a slight giggle.

  Thurman sighed. Things could be worse - much worse in fact. He could still be the Special Agent in Charge of the FBI office in Lexington, Ky., Columbia, S.C., or even Lubbock, Texas.

  After 32 years with the Bureau and stops all over the country, he decided to take his retirement and come home to Stone City, much to the delight of his wife, Carlene. Like him, she was a native. They had been high school sweethearts all the way back in 1958. When they graduated, he spent a couple of years in the Army at Ft. Bragg, N.C. and Carlene attended nursing school. Following his stint in the Army, he used the G.I. Bill and enrolled in Maryville College in nearby Maryville and majored in history while Carlene worked as an RN at Blount Memorial Hospital. A law degree from the University of Tennessee in Knoxville followed.

  It was during his second year of law school that their oldest child, Lucy, was born.

  His plans to practice law in Stone City disappeared when he was recruited by one of his law professors to join the FBI in 1967 — the year his oldest son, Ray, was born.

  He bounced around the country with his wife and small family following along without much complaint. Memphis, Atlanta, Chicago, Lubbock, Columbia, and finally Lexington dotted his resume.


  His third child and youngest son Walker was born in Lubbock.

  Thurman watched the traffic slow down as they spotted his cruiser on the side of the road. He shook his head. It seemed as though the years had flown by when he wasn't looking.

  Lucy was married to advertising representative at TV station in Tampa, Fla. Though she had a degree in business, she was content to stay home with their two sons – Micah and Eli.

  Ray taught high school English in South Carolina where he and his second wife lived.

  And Walker. Well, Walker was different. Intelligent, outgoing, and a college drop-out, Walker was now a sous chef at a ritzy restaurant in Dallas.

  Never married, no children, and no prospects for either - certainly not anytime soon if ever.

  Yeah, Walker was different alright. But Thurman loved his youngest son no matter the misgivings he held about his career or lifestyle choices.

  Kids out of the house and living their own lives in other states left a void for both he and Carlene. Thurman loved to hunt and fish more than most men his age, but he couldn't spend his retirement that way. A strong work ethic was too ingrained in his personality to enjoy a soft retirement. Shortly after moving back to Stone City he accepted a job as chief of police for the small city police department - total staff of seven people.

  When Butcher County Sheriff Bert Flood drowned (ironically enough) following a boating accident, then County Mayor Riley England recommended him to the county commission to fill the remainder of Flood's term.

  One year later he was elected in his own right. And now, eight years later, here he sat – waiting to be window dressing security for the Republican candidate for the U.S. Senate. The campaign had already informed him that his help was not needed or even wanted. Though a Democrat, Thurman was expected to show a certain level of respect for the man who would likely be the next junior senator from Tennessee.

  The fact that the candidate also hailed from Butcher County only underscored the political nature of his escort.

  Jack Raven didn't need his protection. He had a private security team that rivaled a small army. His patrol car, like the motorcade, was for show only.

  Thurman's mind then drifted to the Raven family. He did not like them and not only because of their politics. He had known the family for much of his life and was well aware that old Dal Raven built his massive fortune skirting the law, be it running guns in the 1960s via his manufacturing and shipping businesses to his pharmaceutical holdings in places like Columbia and Mexico.

  In a world of slick fish, Dal Raven had proven to be among the slickest. But no one – from local authorities to the FBI had ever been able to build an effective case against him largely because of his dealings with the intelligent community.

  Now largely retired, the eldest Raven had pretty much ceded control of his empire to his oldest son, Gene some years back. He still made an appearance now and then but for the most part was happy to preside over the sprawling 250-acre family estate, Raven's Nest, in Butcher County.

  Thurman remembered a much younger and more socially coarse Gene Raven in the 1960s. In many ways he was a chip off the block. At the time the Raven family was known locally to be active in the Ku Klux Klan.

  Gene played guard on the Stone City High School football team. Like many other people, Thurman believed Gene got his spot on the team due to his father's money and political connections rather than work ethic and ability.

  But more than that ate at the sheriff. Gene spent a good deal of his high school years in trouble with the law for drinking or fighting. Dal was able to spread enough cash around to make most of the problems go away – even if it meant paying for no less than three young ladies to visit a women's clinic in Knoxville.

  Thurman had to laugh. Gene now managed his brother Jack's campaign and Jack was known statewide as a staunch pro-life supporter.

  But Gene Raven was more than a grown up juvenile delinquent. Thurman knew more about the Raven family - Gene in particular.

  “Not enough evidence, Lonnie, not enough evidence,” Thurman muttered as the radio crackled.

  “ETA two minutes Sheriff,” the dispatcher said.

  “10-4 Brenda,” he answered.

  ***

  Deputy Beau Fullbright rubbed his bloodshot hazel eyes and looked in the rearview mirror. His double-shift ended on traffic watch at Stone City Elementary and now as he sat in his cruiser outside the End Zone Diner he could feel his fatigue battling his hunger.

  Stepping out of the patrol car, he ran his hand through his short brown hair and rubbed his chin. Feeling the stubble, he knew he needed a shave. Fullbright walked about twenty steps to the glass door and walked inside.

  A short thirtyish woman with short red hair and a more than ample bosom brightened with a bubbly smile when he walked in.

  “Good morning Beau!” She piped up drawing attention from the other diners.

  “Good morning Sherry, you doing okay?” He asked as he slid his 6'4 inch frame into a booth near the front windows.

  “You look wore out,” she said with a little concern.

  “Yeah, double shift. I covered night patrol for Smitty,” Beau explained.

  “Coffee?” Sherry asked.

  “Yes please and just bring me my usual,” he said.

  “You look hungry. Want me to have Frank double up on it?” She asked.

  “I'd appreciate it,” Beau answered wearily.

  “You got it sweetie,” Sherry said as she stepped away with a bit of a bounce in her step.

  Beau rubbed his hand over the smooth salt and pepper Formica table top. He imagined the diner looked pretty much as it did when it opened in 1956. Booths with padded red imitation leather lined the wall/window sections while round stools covered in the same faux material dotted the front of the counter. Shiny black and light gray tile covered the floor. A framed 1956 Stone City High School football schedule calendar was framed and hung near the front door.

  Sherry soon returned with a cup, saucer, and carafe of coffee. Her blue eyes sparkled.

  “Breakfast will be out in a minute. You need anything else, you let me know,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Beau said with a little smile. He noticed a flash of movement as a very large and dark form plopped down in the booth across from him.

  “You look like hell,” boomed a familiar voice.

  “Jealous?” Beau asked.

  He was answered with a broad grin.

  “You want some breakfast Marcus?” Sherry asked.

  “Yes ma’am. Bring me whatever he's having and some coffee. Oh and throw in a couple extra biscuits — I'm feeling a little peckish this morning,” he said.

  “Yeah, you look it,” Sherry said as she retreated once again.

  Tired as he was, Beau couldn't help smiling at his best friend and fellow deputy, Marcus LaSalle.

  If Fullbright was considered a big man, LaSalle was the next size up. He stood 6'6 and weighed a muscular 260 pounds. His head was shaved slick and a thick black goatee adorned his dark brown face.

  Beau took a sip of his coffee.

  “You're bright-eyed and bushy tailed today,” Beau said.

  “Wish I could say the same for you. Man, Smitty owes you one,” Marcus said.

  “Heh. The way I feel kinda reminds me of finals week our sophomore year,” Beau said.

  “You mean when Booty Ford pulled the fire alarm at three in the morning?” Marcus asked as Sherry wordlessly placed a cup and saucer with a small carafe on the table in front of him.

  “Thank you,” Marcus said before returning his attention to the conversation.

  “That's the time,” Beau said as he sipped his coffee.

  “I remember. We studied for that psych final until 2:30. I was just getting to sleep when that fire alarm went off,” Marcus said ruefully as he filled his cup with the hot brew.

  “And we stood outside in the chilly May rain for 45 minutes until the R.A.s called roll for us to go back in,” Beau said with a laugh. />
  “And by that time we were so wired we couldn't sleep. I had three damn finals that day. I could've killed Booty,” Marcus said.

  “You might have done the world a favor. You know he's a divorce attorney out near Paducah now,” Beau said.

  “Yeah, I heard. Sounds like him,” Marcus said as he blew steam from the top of his coffee. “So, anything happen last night?” He asked.

  “No, it was quiet. Real peaceful - the way I like it,” Beau said.

  Marcus nodded.

  “Good. Being a Tuesday night helped. Not as many drunks out,” he said.

  Sherry returned with a tray containing two plates - more like platters of food.

  “Here you go boys - gravy, biscuits, bacon, hash browns, and eggs over medium. You need anything else?” She asked as she sat the plates on the table.

  Both men shook their heads.

  “We're good. Thank you Sherry,” Beau said.

  “Just holler if you need anything,” she said, flashing a smile at Beau as she walked away.

  “You're lucky I'm here,” Marcus said casually.

  “Why?” Beau asked as he started to cut into his biscuit.

  “To pull Sherry off of you when she decides to jump you right here on this table,” Marcus said.

  “Aw, c'mon,” Beau said.

  “Imagine having to eat off of this table after something like that. Health violations alone would shut this place down, not to mention the publicity -” Marcus was cut off.

  “Enough for cryin' out loud,” Beau said.

  “I'm pretty sure she would be. Come to think of it, maybe you would be too,” Marcus said as he peppered his gravy and eggs.

  “Just shut up and eat,” Beau said pleadingly.

  “Admit it - she is cute and a blind man can see she's crazy about you,” Marcus said.

  “She is cute and she's very nice. She deserves better than you going on like that,” Beau said.

  “Relax, I'm only messing with you. But some physical activity for your loins,” Marcus said making air quotes, “might do you a world of good.”