Frantic

by Mike Dellosso

  WHAT PEOPLE ARE SAYING…

  Mike Dellosso has a winner here. Unforgettable characters. Compelling plot. Soul-stirring implications and some of the best writing I’ve seen.

  —ALTON GANSKY

  CHRISTY AWARD FINALIST, ANGEL AWARD WINNER,

  AND AUTHOR OF ANGEL AND ENOCH

  With Darkness Follows, once again Mike Dellosso proves himself a master of twisty, creepy, edge-of-your seat suspense. As if that weren’t enough, he infuses this story with characters who matter, and even more so with head-rattling truths that echo long after you turn the last page. That the story itself—which links two lives across a century and a half—is both intriguing and entertaining is sweet icing on an already delicious cake.

  —ROBERT LIPARULO

  AUTHOR OF COMES A HORSEMAN, GERM, AND THE

  DREAMHOUSE KINGS SERIES

  If you’re ready to be grabbed by the proverbial throat from the moment you start and want that rush to continue to the end, then Darkness Follows is your book. Twists, turns, and a compelling finish make this novel a fine addition to the Mike Dellosso library.

  —JAMES L. RUBART

  BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF ROOMS AND BOOK OF DAYS

  Hold on for a fast-paced journey that satisfies on a number of levels.

  —ERIC WILSON

  AUTHOR OF NEW YORK TIMES BEST SELLER FIREPROOF

  Taut, tense, and frightening. A high-speed ride that will keep you guessing until the end.

  —TOSCA LEE

  AUTHOR OF DEMON: A MEMOIR

  Mike Dellosso’s brilliant light shines into the dark places of the human heart and illuminates our most terrible fears.

  —ERIN HEALY

  AUTHOR OF NEVER LET YOU GO AND

  COAUTHOR WITH TED DEKKER OF KISS AND BURN

  Mike Dellosso could very well be the next Frank Peretti.

  —C. J. DARLINGTON

  AUTHOR OF THICKER THAN BLOOD AND

  COFOUNDER OF TITLETRAKK.COM

  Mike Dellosso, an astonishing new voice in supernatural thrillers, cements his right to be grouped with the likes of King and Peretti.

  —SUSAN SLEEMAN

  THESUSPENSEZONE.COM

  Mike Dellosso has once again brought us an engaging thriller full of gut-wrenching suspense and strong spiritual truth.

  —JAKE CHISM

  THECHRISTIANMANIFESTO.COM

  MOST CHARISMA HOUSE BOOK GROUP products are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchase for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising, and educational needs. For details, write Charisma House Book Group, 600 Rinehart Road, Lake Mary, Florida 32746, or telephone (407) 333-0600.

  FRANTIC by Mike Dellosso

  Published by Realms

  Charisma Media/Charisma House Book Group

  600 Rinehart Road

  Lake Mary, Florida 32746

  www.charismahouse.com

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters in this book are fictitious unless they are historical figures explicitly named. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual people, whether living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Mike Dellosso

  All rights reserved

  Cover design by Justin Evans

  Design Director: Bill Johnson

  Visit the author’s website at www.MikeDellosso.com.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Dellosso, Mike.

  Frantic / Mike Dellosso. -- 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-61638-480-7 (trade paper)— ISBN 978-1-61638-639-9 (ebook)

  1. Kidnapping–Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3604.E446F73 2012

  813’.6–dc23

  2011039349

  First edition

  12 13 14 15 16 — 987654321

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Jen, your dedication to our family inspires me!

  For Laura, I love seeing you grow in your creativity and passion.

  For Abby, never lose your attention to detail and your determination to do your best.

  For Caroline, your smile is infectious and brightens every room you enter.

  For Elizabeth, so innocent. Those baby blues could inspire a thousand stories.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Acknowledgments

  EVERY TIME I write one of these acknowledgment pages I’m reminded of how many people go into the making of a book, how many people have left their fingerprints on it. Really, if we want to get philosophical about it, the number is countless. Everyone who has ever known me has left a fingerprint on my life, and since each story is a product of who I am and what I’ve experienced, they’ve all had a role in the making of this book. But since we’re shooting for a certain page length here and not looking to top the charts on the boring scale, I can only name a few of the many.

  First, I need to recognize my wife, Jen. She puts up with a lot from me, more than she should have to. Living with someone who spends time in another world, especially one of his own making, can’t be an easy task. We have our moments of friction, but mostly we handle it with grace, in large part due to her belief in me as a writer.

  I also need to say a few words about my four little ladies. I love writing and would continue to do it even if I remained anonymous and didn’t make a penny, but since I do make pennies and we depend on those pennies, I need some motivation to keep at it. My daughters—Laura, Abby, Caroline, and Elizabeth—provide much of my intrinsic motivation. Every time I look at them I’m reminded why I drag myself out of bed before sunrise every day and d
o this writing thing. And I’m reminded why I strive to make each book better than the one before it.

  Now, I want to thank:

  My parents … more than anyone else, they played a role in forming me into the person I am today. They’ve contributed so much to my storytelling simply by contributing so much to my life.

  Les Stobbe … an agent full of wisdom and patience. I can be impulsive and impatient at times, and he’s become very good at reining me in and putting things into perspective.

  L. B. Norton … an editor who is both insightful and careful, she walks a fine line and does it with apparent ease and grace. She helped fine-tune this story and bring out the best in it. Editors deserve more credit than they get, and LB is at the top of that list.

  Debbie Marrie and Deb Moss … my editors at Realms. Debbie was the first to believe in me, and her support has never wavered. She’s stuck with me this far, which amazes and humbles me. I hope she never regrets it. Deb is my literary mom who makes sure my manuscript’s shirt is tucked in and hair is combed before it goes out in public. More than once she’s had to do that lick the thumb and get the food off my face mom-thing.

  The marketing, publicity, and sales teams at Realms … for all they do to make my books and me visible. The design team … for the eye-catching covers.

  My readers … you give me the extrinsic motivation to keep writing. I love your feedback. A lot of you have been with me from the very beginning, and the rest have jumped on board since then. I hope you’re enjoying the ride as much as I am.

  My God and Savior … without Him in my life, all this would be an act of futility. He gives me purpose. Whatever glory there is goes to Him.

  Chapter 1

  THE NIGHT MARNY Toogood was born it rained axheads and hammer handles.

  His grandfather made a prediction, said it was an omen of some sort, that it meant Marny’s life would be stormy, full of rain clouds and lightning strikes. Wanting to prove her father wrong, Janie Toogood named her son Marnin, which means “one who brings joy,” instead of the Mitchell she and her husband had agreed on.

  But in spite of Janie’s good intentions, and regardless of what his birth certificate said, Marny’s grandfather was right.

  At the exact time Marny was delivered into this world and his grandfather was portending a dark future, Marny’s father was en route to the hospital from his job at Winden’s Furniture Factory where he was stuck working the graveyard shift. He’d gotten the phone call that Janie was in labor, dropped his hammer, and run out of the plant. Fifteen minutes from the hospital his pickup hit standing water, hydroplaned, and tumbled down a steep embankment, landing in a stand of eastern white pines. The coroner said he experienced a quick death; he did not suffer.

  One week after Marny’s birth his grandfather died of a heart attack. He didn’t suffer either.

  Twenty-six years and a couple of lifetimes of hurt later, Marny found himself working at Condon’s Gas ’n Go and living above the garage in a small studio apartment George Condon rented to him for two hundred bucks a month. It was nothing special, but it was a place to lay his head at night and dream about the dark cloud that stalked him.

  But his mother had told him every day until the moment she died that behind every rain cloud is the sun, just waiting to shine its light and dry the earth’s tears.

  Marny held on to that promise and thought about it every night before he succumbed to sleep and entered a world that was as unfriendly and frightening as any fairy tale forest, the place of his dreams, the only place more dark and foreboding than his life.

  On the day reality collided with the world of Marny’s nightmares, it was hotter than blazes, strange for a June day in Maine. The sun sat high in the sky, and waves of heat rolled over the asphalt lot at the Gas ’n Go. The weather kept everyone indoors, which meant business was slow for a Saturday. Marny sat in the garage bay waiting for Mr. Condon to take his turn in checkers and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  “Man, it’s hot.”

  Mr. Condon didn’t look up from the checkerboard. “Ayuh. Wicked hot. Newsman said it could hit ninety.”

  “So it’ll probably get up to ninety-five.”

  Mr. Condon rubbed at his white stubble. “Ayuh.”

  He was sixty-two and looked it. His leather-tough skin was creased with deep wrinkles. Lots of smile lines. Marny had worked for him for two years but had known the old mechanic his whole life.

  Mr. Condon made his move then squinted at Marny. Behind him Ed Ricker’s Dodge truck rested on the lift. The transmission had blown, and Mr. Condon should have been working on it instead of playing checkers. But old Condon kept his own schedule. His customers never complained. George Condon was the best, and cheapest, mechanic around. He’d been getting cars and trucks through one more Maine winter for forty years.

  Marny studied the checkerboard, feeling the weight of Mr. Condon’s dark eyes on him, and was about to make his move when the bell chimed, signaling someone had pulled up to the pump island. Condon’s was the only full-service station left in the Down East, maybe in the whole state of Maine.

  Despite the heat, Mr. Condon didn’t have one droplet of sweat on his face. “Cah’s waitin’, son.”

  Marny glanced outside at the tendrils of heat wriggling above the lot, then at the checkerboard. “No cheating.”

  His opponent winked. “No promises.”

  Pushing back his chair, Marny stood and wiped more sweat from his brow, then headed outside.

  The car at the pump was a 1990s model Ford Taurus, faded blue with a few rust spots around the wheel wells. The windows were rolled down, which probably meant the air-conditioning had quit working. This was normally not a big deal in Maine, but on a rare day like this, the driver had to be longing for cool air.

  Marny had never seen the vehicle before. The driver was a large man, thick and broad. He had close-cropped hair and a smooth, round face. Marny had never seen him before either.

  He approached the car and did his best to be friendly. “Mornin’. Hot one, isn’t it?”

  The driver neither smiled nor looked at him. “Fill it up. Regular.”

  Marny headed to the rear of the car and noticed a girl in the backseat. A woman, really, looked to be in her early twenties. She sat with her hands in her lap, head slightly bowed. As he passed the rear window she glanced at him, and there was something in her eyes that spoke of sorrow and doom. Marny recognized the look because he saw it in his own eyes every night in the mirror. He smiled, but she quickly diverted her gaze.

  As he pumped the gas, Marny watched the girl, studied the back of her head. She was attractive in a plain way, a natural prettiness that didn’t need any help from cosmetics. Her hair was rich brown and hung loosely around her shoulders. But it was her eyes that had captivated him. They were as blue as the summer sky, but so sad and empty. Marny wondered what the story was between the man and girl. He was certainly old enough to be her father. He looked stern and callous, maybe even cruel. Marny felt for her, for her unhappiness, her life.

  He caught the man watching him in the side mirror and looked at the pump’s gauge. A second later the nozzle clicked off, and he returned it to the pump. He walked back to the driver’s window. “That’ll be forty-two.”

  While the man fished around in his back pocket for his wallet, Marny glanced at the girl again, but she kept her eyes down on her hands.

  “You folks local?” Marny said, trying to get the man to open up a little.

  The driver handed Marny three twenties but said nothing.

  Marny counted off eighteen dollars in change. “You new in the area? I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before. Lately, seems more people have been moving out than in.”

  Still nothing. The man took the money and started the car. Before pulling out he nodded at Marny. There was something in the way he moved his head, the way his eyes sat in their sockets, the way his forehead wrinkled ever so slightly, that made Marny shiver despite the heat.

&n
bsp; The car rolled away from the pump, asphalt sticking to the tires, and exited the lot. Marny watched until it was nearly out of sight, then turned to head back to the garage and Mr. Condon and the game of checkers. But a crumpled piece of paper on the ground where the Taurus had been parked caught his attention. He picked it up and unfurled it. Written in all capital letters was a message:

  HE’S GOING TO KILL ME

  Chapter 2

  EVERY CLOCK IN the world came to a sudden stop.

  Marny stood there like an idiot as the seconds ticked by, staring at that piece of paper with its spiderweb of folds and strange handwriting. The words were scribbled hastily, not like his idea of a girl’s careful script at all. Her face was in his head again. That mahogany hair, the sloping lines of her jaw, her eyes, those thoughtful, sad eyes. Sweat ran down his temples and the back of his neck like he was made of ice and melting in the late morning sun.

  Finally he snapped out of his daze, looked down the road—the car was gone by now—and headed back to the garage. Proactive was not a word commonly used to describe Marny Toogood. But that day, at that moment, he felt he had to do something. What, he had no idea. No plan, no marching orders. But there was something about the girl, something about the way she postured herself in the backseat of that car, something about her hands and her shoulders and the dip of her mouth, and something about those eyes that drew him to her, connected them on some metaphysical level that he couldn’t understand. What he did understand and what pried him out of his comfort zone and pushed him to action was the fact that the driver of the car, that strange man with no personality, was going to kill her—at least she believed he was going to kill her—and as far as Marny was concerned, he was the only one who knew about it.

  By the time he made it back to the garage he wasn’t even thinking; he was just doing, acting on pure instinct. Mr. Condon dropped his checker piece and stood so fast his metal chair toppled over and clanged loudly on the concrete floor.

  “Holy jumpin’, boy, what’s the matter?”

  Marny tried to talk, but his tongue wouldn’t work. “The–the– the … ” He waved the paper like it was trying to fly away and he had it by one wing.

  Mr. Condon held up both hands. “Now just settle yaself, Mahny. Ya look like ya ready to pass out.” He glanced outside. “Did they drive off without payin’?”