New Year's Eve

by Heather Graham

  New Year's Eve

  Heather Graham

  Slush Pile Players

  Copyright © 2020 Heather Graham

  New Year's Eve

  Copyright © 2020 by Slush Pile Productions

  All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior express written permission of the author. Unauthorized reproduction of this material, electronic or otherwise, will result in legal action.

  Please report the unauthorized distribution of this publication by contacting the author at theoriginalheathergraham.com, via email at connie@perryco.biz, or at Heather Graham 103 Estainville Ave., Lafayette, LA 70508. Please help stop internet piracy by alerting the author with the name and web address of any questionable or unauthorized distributor.

  New Year's Eve is a work of fiction. The people and events in New Year's Eve are entirely fictional. The story is not a reflection of historical or current fact, nor is the story an accurate representation of past or current events. Any resemblance between the characters in this novel and any or all persons living, or dead is entirely coincidental.

  New Year’s Eve

  (A short Krewe of Hunters Story)

  It’s New Year’s Eve. Jackson Crow and Angela had planned on being in the office, and then home to see in the new year with their children--who might or might not be awake at the magic hour.

  But Adam Harrison came in, bringing a strange note warning of dire consequences just after the stroke of midnight.

  Was the note—found between a coffee cup and a saucer a real warning against a random patron in the café, or a more specific threat against the man who discovered it? Was it possibly a prank, or was the threat far too real?

  With no hard leads, the two will head out, determined to discover the truth and perhaps avoid a` tragedy as the old year gives way to the new.

  New Year’s Eve

  Prologue

  If intent were serious, did you write it up?

  He looked at the words on the paper.

  Serious, yes. Because agony had set in. And how did one allow it to go on?

  The year was ending. So many were looking forward to the new year! And people said a new year offered new hope. He wasn’t sure why, but it was a standard. This year, Friday would follow Thursday. Another day in another week.

  But was there hope if you just went on the way you did before?

  Or was there true conviction?

  A definition of insanity was doing the same things over, and over again—and expecting a different response.

  And if things were going to change, didn’t he have to change them?

  He felt his fingers shaking. He set the napkin under a cup with gloved fingers, aware that he was being summoned.

  Time . . .

  If he was going to act, the time was drawing near.

  Jackson

  “’He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone. At his heels a grass-green turf, at his head a stone.’”

  The quote from Shakespeare’s Hamlet was written first.

  And then contemporary words were added.

  “Some are gone as I write. But still. Suffering and pain. The brutality of life. And some need to be gone. I will see that it all ends with the year and beware! The clock will come to strike 12:01!”

  Jackson Crow read the words on the napkin now encased in an evidence bag and wondered if those words would soon be blazoned all over the media, no matter what effort there might be to control a panic before law enforcement knew where the threat had come from—and exactly what it meant.

  He’d been surprised when Adam Harrison—Krewe founder and all-around exceptional human being—called and said he’d be coming to the office.

  Adam had put the Krewe together not because he had special “talents” himself, but because he had the ability to know about those who did. For years, when he heard about strange events, he looked for the right person among those he knew—then he experimented with just six original members and the Krewe was formed as a separate unit of the FBI.

  But Adam didn’t go out on cases. He didn’t even own a gun. He had learned through the incredible abilities of his son, passed on to the friend who had had held Josh Harrison as he had died.

  The good thing now was while Adam didn’t normally see the dead, the time had come when he had been able to see Josh.

  With Covid19, however, Adam’s one companion had been Josh—Adam was in the over eighty crowd, but while he mourned many of the people he had lost in life, he knew that he was a viable human being, important himself to others.

  And he was careful to social distance, and while they had taken all measures for safety in the office, Adam simply hadn’t come by.

  But now he sat in front of Jackson, having handed a photograph of the note that had been discovered under a patron’s cup at Café Kona, a charming little place in Alexandria where they’d all enjoyed many a cup of coffee on a long day or night.

  “The owner called me. He’s an old-timer, like me. Tony Marino—we were in the service together just about a lifetime ago. Seems the man who found it—Bart Winston—is terrified. And even the owner of the café thinks it’s a threat against someone living at the Alistair Apartments. I alerted the bureau, and we’ve also alerted the local police. Do you think it suggests a credible threat?” Adam asked him. “People . . . sometimes, they think things they’d never really do. Or write them.”

  Jackson was thoughtful.

  “The words are suggestive, yes. Of course, the end of the year is often a time when people who are depressed become more so. Christmas, holidays . . . and this year, so many people away from those they love. Except that . . .”

  Jackson paused. He’d had a degree in criminology but not psychology. And still, he had seen a great deal through the years, coming to know a lot of what was good—and bad—among humanity.

  Many people were saddened and depressed because they hadn’t seen their families this year. But the depression that could cause extreme behavior often came about because there were no family members or friends who might be with someone no matter what the circumstances.

  “Have there been any calls to the police? From the apartment complex, or other? And the note was found under a cup? How did it get there? You say people are afraid, but have you heard anything about anyone who might not live in the apartment complex? Anything from anyone who saw or heard something that might have them frightened that someone they know—or don’t know--might . . . be dangerous?” Jackson asked.

  The Krewe had a good relationship with local authorities—and with the major offices of the FBI in the D.C. area. When something was going on, Jackson usually heard. But there was always the possibility that something real had been dismissed, or that a warning hadn’t been understood.

  He indicated the note.

  “What about prints?” Jackson asked.

  “Whoever handled the napkin before Bart Winston wore gloves. His are the only prints that are on it.”

  “What do you know about Bart Winston?” Jackson asked.

  “Nothing. I drove by and picked up the note from Tony Marino, the man who owns the place, and brought it to the lab—and then I came to see you. I haven’t physically seen anyone—except Tony, at a distance. Hey, I’m old as the hills. I’m not seeing people. You need to go and see Bart Winston. With your mask on, of course. He isn’t a youngster either.”

  Jackson smiled. “You’re not as old as all the hills!” he assured Adam. “But I’m glad you’re being safe. We need you.”

  “That’s nice and thank you,” Adam said.

  “Where’s Josh?�
� Jackson asked him.

  The ghost of his son was usually with Adam.

  “At the café—watching,” Adam said.

  Jackson nodded. “Good.”

  It was nice when they had spies who couldn’t be seen by the average person.

  “Okay, so . . . I’ll get Angela. We’ll start at the café and talk to Tony Marino and then see Bart Winston and whoever else we’re able to interview at the apartments.”

  “It may just be . . . a prank. I hate sending you out, but . . .”

  “It’s all right. Gratefully, Angela and I had Christmas. And she doesn’t like New Year’s anyway—it’s the best time of the year not to do anything except enjoy one another at home, so—”

  “You won’t be at home.”

  “Oh, we will be. Eventually. Adam, it’s all right.”

  Adam nodded. “Thank you. Obviously, the police have investigated, but it’s New Year’s Eve—they’ve already got a full plate with your run-of-the-mill early New Year’s Eve drunks and crazy stuff because . . . because it’s New Year’s Eve. They didn’t ignore the threat—but I don’t believe they have the time to give to it that I believe it deserves.”

  “It’s all right—”

  “Yeah. I know. It’s what you do,” Adam said, smiling. He’d heard Jackson say the words before. Rising, he looked back one last time. “Keep me—”

  “Informed. Of course.”

  “I’ll be home. With Sylvester.”

  Sylvester was his cat.

  Jackson smiled and nodded.

  Adam adjusted his mask and left him.

  Jackson headed out of his office, too, walking the short distance down the hallway to Angela’s office. He wondered sometimes—gratefully, of course—how he and Angela managed to work together, live together, parent together, and pretty much so do just about everything together, and seldom argue. When he walked in and sat in the chair across from her desk, she looked at him with a question in her eyes.

  “Adam came in. Must be something,” she said.

  He nodded, explained everything Adam had told him, and said, “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Of course not. Our kids are good. Mary Tiger is with them.”

  He nodded. Mary Tiger was Special Agent Axel Tiger’s aunt. She was an amazing help to them, and she could live in the area and be close to Axel, too. He sometimes wished he was as adept with taking care of the world and the kids—as Mary could.

  “What?” Angela asked him.

  “I was just thinking that it’s amazing we don’t argue more. Are we really that perfect?”

  “No. We’re just really that worn out most of the time.”

  “I know. It is New Year’s Eve. With normal jobs, we’d be home.”

  “With normal jobs, we’d be crazy.” She waved a hand in the air. “We’re good. If Adam wants us in the field, we can leave. We have ten agents out across the country, but I’ve just checked in with them all and they’re moving along with their cases. Kat and Will are in their offices, so headquarters will still be manned, so to say. I’m ready.”

  “You knew we were leaving?”

  “Adam was here. I knew something was up. So, we’re off to the café. That’s good. I could use an espresso right now. Maybe two espressos!”

  Angela

  New Year’s Eve.

  There would be fireworks over D.C. It was, after all, the end of one year, the beginning of another.

  Most of the world was ready to say goodbye to 2020.

  But there had been good things, too, Angela thought. Technically, Corby had become their son in 2020, though it had been 2019 when they’d taken him into their hearts. But Victoria Sophia had been born in 2020, and while they had witnessed and hopefully helped friends through tremendous pain and strife during the year, they could never regret the wonder of their children, their family.

  But she understood and emphasized with those who would never want to think about the year again. So many human souls had been lost.

  But 2021 was promising hope.

  “A penny for them,” Jackson said, looking over at her.

  “For my thoughts?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said slowly.

  She laughed softly. “I’m sorry. Inflation. They’re worth much more. No, I was just thinking . . . here’s the good. We have beautiful kids. We’ve been careful, we’re all okay. And we have a chance to stop something—rather than being called in after something terrible has happened.”

  He nodded, but she thought he looked a little grim. And she understood why. It was almost 2:00 P.M. They had ten hours to find out what the note had meant.

  “Jackson, it might have been—”

  “A prank. I don’t think so. The wording. In Shakespeare’s play, Ophelia first sings the words referring to Polonius, who was killed by Hamlet, a murder that changes the dynamics and set into motion the entire disastrous finale. Hamlet is no longer a heroic figure, and there is little hope for anything but tragedy.”

  “All because of a ghost,” Angela murmured.

  “Speaking of ghosts, let’s see if Josh Harrison is still ‘haunting’ the café.”

  “He would have grown into an amazing man if he had lived,” Angela murmured.

  “Yes.” Jackson paused, shaking his head. “He must have a tremendous will—Adam still doesn’t see the dead, usually. Gives you faith in eternity, doesn’t it? That Adam does see him.”

  She nodded and smiled, trying to lighten the mood. “Faith—and gratitude. Josh is a great spy!”

  They left the car and walked the short distance down the block to the café.

  Angela had always loved the little place herself and having been there once with Adam, she’d met the owner, if just briefly. Tony Marino had been born in the United States, but both of his parents had come from Rome. The café, however, didn’t concentrate on Italian food—though it offered fantastic little mini pizzas, individually crafted with or without anything on them that a diner desired. But otherwise, the café offered danishes and other bakery delectables, sandwiches, and quick fare for both the busy worker and the casual shopper.

  And for the times they lived in, Tony had filled the broad sidewalk in front of the café with tables—all nicely set at socially distant angles and offering space heaters. When there was snow on the ground, the space heaters quickly warmed the sidewalk beneath the tables.

  A sign asked patrons to order inside; all would then be brought to them outside. Masks were required, and the ground was marked with footprints, all six feet apart.

  “I’ll head in,” Jackson told Angela. “Espresso?”

  “Double, seriously,” she told him.

  He grinned and she found a table. As she did so, she noted the ghost of Josh Harrison. He was leaning against the glass window just to the side of the door. He perked up when he saw Jackson enter, but he didn’t attempt to speak with Jackson; he could see Jackson giving the young man at the register their order and asking about Tony.

  But when Jackson headed back out to the table, Josh followed him.

  He grinned, sliding into the chair next to Angela as Jackson sat across from her.

  “Still chilly, huh?” he teased Angela.

  “Just a tad. Hey, I have a good coat. I’m good,” she told him. “And you?” she teased in turn.

  “Cold as death, and, hey, that’s okay! I don’t feel a thing and I don’t have to wear a mask! Oh, you’re allowed to take yours off when your order comes!”

  “Thanks!”

  “Ignore the young man,” Jackson said, shaking his head. “Tony is on the way out.”

  “Ignore me?” Josh said. “I’m the one who has been here—watching!”

  “And have you seen anything?” Jackson asked him.

  Josh sighed. “Delicious food I can’t taste!” he said.

  “I’m so sorry,” Angela said. “Don’t worry—we won’t savor anything in front of you. I can complain that the espresso is rancid if you want?”

  He grinned
at that. “That’s okay. I’ll endure!” He grew serious then. “I’ve been watching here all day. And I’m wondering a few things. Such as, how did the note get under a cup, or between the cup and the saucer? Tony opens at 6:00 A.M. He has four servers and two cashiers. He’s closed on Sundays, and his staff divide the week, all working three twelve-hour days.” He paused, shrugging. “Oh, and two cooks in the kitchen, same split of time working. I don’t think there’s a problem with tipping because it’s done at the counter when you order, and all tips are split between the working cashier and wait staff.”

  He fell silent because Tony, in his mask, was coming out to greet them.

  Angela thought it might be difficult for Tony—he was an effusive man, accustomed to hugging those he deemed to be his friends.

  But he stopped a few feet from them, a stocky man in his late sixties or seventies who had maintained humor in his blue eyes and still sported a full head of silver hair.

  “Angela, Jackson! I get the bigwigs themselves! Welcome, welcome, and thank you! And you paid for your coffees—you should not have done so.”

  “That’s okay, Tony! We’re customers,” Angela told him.

  “Should I sit? I will sit. But a bit away!” Tony said, luckily taking the last of the four chairs and not sitting on the ghost of Josh Harrison.

  “Tony, Adam showed us the note on the napkin,” Jackson said.

  “Yes, of course,” Tony said. He shook his head. “Is it serious? Was it intended for Bart Winston? Or was . . . someone fooling around, or perhaps trying to shake up Bart? But how would anyone know what cup one person would get?”

  “Did you—or any of your staff—see anyone around the cups?” Angela asked.

  “Did you question your staff?” Jackson asked.

  “Well, of course! But I know my people! They’re good kids—well, in their twenties, but kids to me. And Bart was so upset—everything stopped! He rushed in, pushed through the line to talk to me. Customers were upset. They heard what was going on, of course, but most thought that a threat on a napkin was a joke and that maybe Bart was crazy himself.”