The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers)

by Lawrence Kelter

  “No one’s safe.” I winked at him. “Go get ’em, tiger, and keep me posted.”

  With Cabrera gone, my mind began to race. I was frantic to come up with a solution, but none was immediately forthcoming. I continued to wonder where Sand had gone but lacked sufficient information to make a quality assessment. I’d learned that checkpoints had been set up all around Manhattan in an effort to confine Sand and prevent him from getting away, but that wouldn’t be easy. There were so many ways off the island of Manhattan, and Sand had proven himself a most clever adversary. He has so many options. I prayed that someone would report having seen him. My soul for an eyewitness.

  There was someone else at the door and a real looker at that, sidewalls, topaz eyes, and high cheekbones; he had drill sergeant written all over his face. Like all of my visitors, he would’ve had to pass security to get anywhere near my room. I smiled and watched as he walked in. He had a slight hitch in his gait, nothing dramatic, more like the way Liam walked when his sciatica flared up.

  “Yes?”

  “Agent Mather, I’m Frank Cormac with the Wounded Warrior Project.”

  Ah. Now I see. I smiled brightly and offered my hand. “Hey, soldier, how are you doing?”

  “Sensational. I heard we had a wounded ex-marine here at the hospital and thought I’d stop by to spread a little good cheer. Did I hear that you were in a firefight?”

  I nodded in dramatic fashion. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Gee, I’m so sorry.” He grimaced. “And there was a casualty, I hear?”

  “Yeah. My CO.” I sighed with a painful expression that lingered on my face.

  “Did he have family?”

  “He was married. Two kids.”

  “Shit!”

  “Yeah. Shit.” Cormac seemed like a sincere guy and was easy on the eyes, but I just didn’t have it in me to talk about Wallace’s shooting again. “So what’s your story? You just hanging around the hospital waiting to chat up gunshot vets?”

  “Nah.” He chuckled. “I visit the kids a couple of times a week. It’s one of the things we do. Some of them have been in serious accidents or were born without functioning arms and legs. It’s not an easy thing for a young person to live with. Sometimes it cheers them up to see someone with the same kind of issue who hasn’t let it get in their way.”

  Aw. I felt a pang. “And you do that?”

  “And I do that,” he said with a big-hearted smile. “Makes me feel good all over.”

  “So you lost your leg, I take it?”

  “I guess you noticed my limp.”

  “I figured you had a charley horse from playing racquetball until you brought up the Wounded Warriors, and you seem to have a complete set of arms and a head.”

  Cormac chuckled and then pulled up his pant leg, exposing his artificial limb.

  “Nice hardware.”

  “Titanium,” he boasted. “Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Always wanted to meet the Six Million Dollar Man.”

  “Six million? The anesthesiologist’s bill alone was probably more than that.” He chuckled. “Thank God for Uncle Sam and his checkbook.” He allowed his cuff to drop. “So how badly are you hurt?”

  “Took one in the back below the shoulder. Tore up some muscle and gave me a neat new beauty mark.”

  “I’ve got one of those. Hurts like a mother, doesn’t it?”

  “Ah, it’s all right. Marines are built tough.”

  “Tough, are you? Where’d you serve?”

  “Afghanistan mostly. Female Engagement Team.”

  “You were a grunt?” he asked with surprise.

  “I most certainly was. And you?”

  “USAF Pararescue.”

  “Now that’s just not fair—you’ve got bionic body parts and you went to superman school as well.”

  “Jealous?” he asked with a grin.

  “Hell yes I am.” Cormac had served with an elite group. A marine has to have a brass pair, but these guys … they wear maroon berets and their emblem reads: So Others May Live. Pararescue boys are the best of the best, guys who take their lives in their hands every time they take to the sky. They go through an incredibly rigorous training regimen informally referred to as superman school. “So where’d you leave your leg?”

  “Marjah, February 2010.”

  I’d been to Marjah. It was a sandy hellhole that military brass referred to as a bleeding ulcer because no matter how hard they tried, drug traffickers and Taliban always crawled back in like the vermin they were. “Nice place that Marjah. I spent a month there one afternoon. IED?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m really sorry. Your leg deserved a better final resting place than that sandy, fly-infested desert.”

  He nodded determinately. “It sure as hell did.”

  We looked at one another for a long moment, each of us wanting to continue the conversation, but neither of us knowing what to say. “Hey, if you’re out by Thursday, we’re hosting a softball game for handicapped kids at Hauppauge High School. You live anywhere around there?”

  “Huntington, not far away, but I’ll be hot on the trail of the guy who wasted my boss as soon as I get out of here.”

  “Sure. I understand,” he said dejectedly. “Anyway, feel better, and if there’s anything I can do …” He reached into his shirt pocket and handed me his business card.

  I couldn’t put my finger on the emotion I was sensing, but for some odd reason I was kind of glad he did.

  Chapter 5

  Wrga had lathered his tender skin with burn ointment and aloe. He had learned to live with low-level pain and felt reasonably comfortable as he crept around in the dark outside Rossetti’s house. The evening was cool and breezy. He could feel the chill right through his airy madras shirt. It was almost midnight, and as he expected, the interior lights were out.

  He looked through the sliding doors with his flashlight until he saw a flat-screen TV. He pictured Rossetti watching the news as Faciamano had requested, unaware that on the other end of the line Wrga was watching Faciamano breathe his last breath.

  He had butchered Faciamano with his blade before interrogating the aging strong-arm man. He had severed all of his fingers with the exception of the thumbs and separated his ribs, one at a time, as one would dissect a plateful of baby backs at the dinner table. It was only after he had pushed him to the brink and was sure that he had learned all he could from him that he forced the phone into Faciamano’s trembling hands and given him instructions. “Call Rossetti!”

  Faciamano had been brave to the bitter end. “I don’t know how to reach him. We lost track,” he’d said to his assailant contemptuously. “Go fuck yourself!”

  Wrga twisted his knife, prying Faciamano’s fifth and sixth ribs apart.

  “Son of a bitch!” Faciamano screamed. He writhed and gritted his teeth, doing his best to bear the excruciating pain.

  Wrga continued to hold the knife taut, keeping the two ribs at distance, ratcheting up the pain to a completely intolerable level. “Just say the number. I’ll dial it for you.”

  “Fuck off!”

  Wrga dragged the knife medially, cutting flesh and muscle until it came to rest in the narrowest stricture and then with one fierce twist cracked the fifth rib from where it articulated with the sternum.

  Faciamano squealed and then retched, spewing bile on the floor.

  “How about it? Want to give me Rossetti’s phone number now?”

  He grunted, too distressed to speak.

  “Take your time,” Wrga said callously. “You’ve got ten ribs, left and right, front and back, and I’m just getting started,” he quelled. “Solingen steel—it’s strong. It’ll last forever. I used to work in a blade factory. I put the edge on this one myself. I could slice your eyeball into a hundred slivers if I wanted to.” He beamed. “Maybe I should see if I can.”

  Faciamano coughed up blood and then looked up at his assailant with rage. He shook his head angrily until it began to tremble. “631.�
�

  Wrga picked up the phone and began to dial the number.

  “871-4560.”

  Wrga filled in the rest of the numbers. “Speak to him. I want to make sure you’re not just yanking my chain.”

  Faciamano sucked blood from his mouth and spit it on the floor. “What the hell do you want me to say?”

  “I don’t give a shit what you say. I just want to make sure it’s him. Talk sports … politics …”

  He cleared his throat and thought about what he would say while he waited for Rossetti to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Yo, Rossetti, you still a Met’s bitch?”

  Wrga waited until he was satisfied that the call was authentic and then slid the knife deeper. Blood began to run out as he withdrew it. He stood and walked away but watched through the window until he was sure that Faciamano was dead. All the while blisters swelled on his neck and popped like balloons yielding to a needle prick.

  The wind whipped up outside Rossetti’s house—Wrga could hear it howl. From his vantage point he could see through the den and into the foyer. On the wall next to the front door the alarm system indicator light was green. “What a waste of money,” he muttered. “McGruff won’t be happy about this,” he chided and then used his prized German-made knife to snap the vinyl trim that covered the sliding door latch. With the mechanism exposed, he used the knife to force it open. The door slid smoothly on its track. He slipped inside, closed it, and pried off his shoes.

  Walking around in his stocking feet, his footsteps on the plush carpet were completely silent. He explored the lower level of the house without incident and quietly climbed the steps, all the while clenching his knife securely in his right hand. He froze when the red LED on the motion detector pulsed at the top of the staircase. He felt his system flush with adrenaline, but then continued on after remembering that the system was disarmed.

  From the upstairs layout, he surmised which bedroom was the master and made straight for it. Standing at the threshold, peering into the dark, he listened for Rossetti’s breathing but couldn’t distinguish any sounds. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and then he saw that the bed was made and empty. He quickly checked the two remaining bedrooms. While rubbing his stubbly chin, he said, “What the hell?” An unplanned-for possibility popped into his head. Could Faciamano have warned him?

  He shook his head unhappily as the likelihood of it happening gained credibility, and then hurried downstairs to the kitchen. He flipped on the lights and looked around. The kitchen was immaculate—neither dishes nor utensils had been left lying about. The black granite counters had been polished to a brilliant luster and showed no recent use. There wasn’t a trace of dust, not so much as an errant fingerprint. Something’s wrong, Wrga thought. I don’t like it.

  As he continued to look around, he explored the kitchen drawers and cabinets before moving on to the foyer. Mail was lying on the floor under the mail slot. A square brightly colored envelope rested atop the pile. No doubt a card. He picked it up and slit it open with the big knife. It contained a picture of two young boys and a birthday card. The inscription read:

  Love you, Grandpa.

  It was signed:

  Josh and Brandon

  Wrga cheeks rose as he scanned the return address. “This should be easy.”

  Chapter 6

  I saw that Grace had a new wrinkle on her forehead. It took a while for me to notice it, but I became aware of it when she rose after helping me with the shoelaces on my running shoes. I had always maintained that she had exactly four wrinkles on her forehead, one for every year I had served as a marine, but now there were five. The bullet I had taken in the back had permanently scarred us both.

  Liam had gone downstairs to pull the car around to the front hospital entrance while Grace and I packed my things. She looked haggard, and I wondered how much sleep she had missed since the shooting. “You doing okay?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh,” she replied weakly as she stuffed the last of my toiletries into a case. “I think I got everything. Do you want to check to make sure I haven’t missed anything?”

  The suit I had worn the evening of the shooting had gone to the lab for analysis. All I really had with me in the hospital was my cell phone and a few bucks in cash. “No. I’m good. You’re a bloodhound anyway.”

  “What a lovely way to describe the woman who gave you life.”

  “A gorgeous and loving bloodhound,” I inserted with a wiseass grin.

  She clutched her heart, fawning sarcastically. “So much better.” A wheelchair was at the ready for my departure. “Shall I call the nurse?”

  “Sure. Let’s blow this pop stand.”

  Grace had gobs of mental toughness, but I winced as I stood up and she went to pieces. I could see her face go taut and then tears ran down her cheeks.

  “Hey, hey, what’s all this? It’s just a scratch.”

  “This time,” she blurted. “You know you’re not a goddamn cat, Chloe. You don’t have nine lives. How many firefights did you take part in as a marine? How many times do you have to put your life on the line?” She covered her mouth and wept.

  I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t have an answer. This was the path I had chosen, and I accepted the risks, but the effect it was having on Grace … dear God, she certainly deserved better. At the very least she deserved peace of mind and not having to worry if her daughter would make it home from work each day. I couldn’t raise my left arm, so I put my right arm around her and rested my head against hers. “I’m so sorry. I never thought …”

  “Of course you didn’t. I raised you proud and strong, and look how you turned out,” she said, showing motherly pride. “But we’re all only human, Chloe. Maybe it’s time you did something else, something that won’t put your life at risk.”

  “Up till now I haven’t so much as chipped a fingernail.”

  “Thank God, but maybe the good Lord is trying to tell you something.”

  Yeah, maybe. Not that I’d listen to him or anyone else.

  “I hope they catch this bastard and give him the chair. Wounding you and murdering Bill Wallace … what kind of animal is this man?”

  The chair? I knew that she was only venting her anger and wasn’t literally talking about plopping Sand down in Old Sparky. Still, capital punishment seemed to be in Sand’s future if he didn’t first take an agent’s bullet between the eyes. The irony of capital punishment was that it hadn’t been proven to deter crime and costs the state an absurd amount of money. For what it would cost to execute Sand by lethal injection, the bureau could put hundreds of additional agents out on the street. “He’ll be caught and punished. Rest assured, this turkey will get cooked.”

  Grace glared at me. “Bullshit! I want to see the son of a bitch fry.”

  She’d always been a feisty one, but yikes, I was the one who’d been shot and I wasn’t half as enraged as she was. What could I expect? She was the one who devoted her life to me. At her core she was a Brit, and the English were no lightweights when it came to the noble tradition of execution. I mean, we’re talking about a country where those guilty of high treason were often burned, boiled, or drawn and quartered. The monarchy certainly didn’t mess around when it came to sedition. Beat and murder a street urchin and a prominent citizen could buy his way to freedom, but tell King Henry to F off and you were dragged by horses, hung, disemboweled, beheaded and chopped up into little pieces. Let me tell you, no one screwed around with King Henry.

  “Thank God you’ll be home where I can keep my eye on you for a while,” she said with motherly arrogance.

  Egads! Perhaps I should stay in the hospital a while longer. Don’t get me wrong; I love my mother, but I hate being mothered—know what I mean? Grace had never been the lovey-dovey type, but her devotion to me was never in question. She’d been my rock through thick and thin, and believe me when I tell you that there had been some mighty thin times. I got sentimental for a moment, and then my father’s
face, the face of the old scallywag, popped into my head and I remembered that he had called me just moments before the attack. I had literally not heard from him in years and was shocked when his name popped up on my phone. It had been like a bad omen, which had preceded the assault by Sand and his cohorts by mere moments. “Hey, Mom, sit down for a moment, would ya?”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  I plopped down on the hospital bed and waited for her to join me. “Albert called.” I never called him father because most girls love their fathers and I … Christ, he was such a lousy old shit.

  Her jaw dropped. “When? How could he know that you were in the hospital? We haven’t talked in years.”

  “It was before the shooting.”

  “Before?” Her eyes were wide with astonishment. “I’m surprised that he’d contact you for anything less than a mortal injury. You said before. When before? Are you sure? You were on painkillers. Maybe your sense of time is off.”

  “Trust me, I know exactly when he called.” I grabbed my iPhone and brought up a list of recently missed calls. “Here you go.” I pointed to his name on the display. “He called at 6:48 p.m. just minutes before the attack. Believe me, that moment is burned into my mind. Like I said, I was completely shocked.”

  “Well, what did he want?” she asked heatedly.

  “I never spoke to him. Before I knew it, bullets were flying. I squeezed off a few rounds and then the lights went out. I woke up just before I was rolled into the ambulance.”

  “Now you’re the bad one,” she blurted. “With all the pain and suffering he’s brought this family, he’ll blame you for everything because you didn’t care enough to answer his call or phone him right back. Well, he can just go take a flying leap for all I care—this family owes him nothing.” She stood abruptly. Her cheeks were flushed and her neck looked damp with sweat. “I need to use the restroom for a moment. I’ll be right back, ” she said. “Okay, honey?”