by Dan Padavona
Contents
Become a VIP Reader
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Join my Reader Group
Support Indie Thriller Authors
Copyright Information
About the Author
Join my VIP Reader Group!
I’m a pretty nice guy once you look past the grisly images in my head. Most of all, I love connecting with awesome readers like you.
Join my VIP Reader Group and get a FREE screen background by clicking below.
Get my FREE Background
CHAPTER ONE
Erika folded the John’s money and tucked it between her hip and thong. His footsteps shuffled away until she didn’t hear them anymore. These were the moments she cherished. The alone time inside the motel room before the staff kicked her out and the next guests bustled in.
With a yawn, she swung her legs off the mattress and dangled her feet over the salt and pepper carpet. A hard spot congealed in the fibers. She grimaced and tried not to imagine how it got there. A door slammed in the next room. Voices rose as a man and woman argued through the walls. This used to be a nice motel. When she was a kid, tourist families stayed at the Wolf Lake Inn. It was a destination spot. You saved money all year to afford a resort like this one. Five years ago, with the local economy in the toilet and the inn on the verge of closing, the family who owned Wolf Lake Inn sold to an outside bidder. The new inn developed a rundown, shady look to it—warped and peeling shingles, chipped paint, and a gaudy neon sign with two letters dead to the world. This room used to cost two hundred a night during the glory years. Now it was fifty-nine with a coupon, and if you knew the owner by name, you could rent it by the hour.
Erika padded to the bathroom and tucked brunette locks behind her ear. The carpet made brittle, crunching noises beneath her feet. She wished for a thick pair of socks or slippers. But those wouldn’t match the stiletto heels. She flicked the light and squinted. According to the mirror, she was eighteen going on forty-five. Skin draped off her face like a Shar-Pei’s. Her flesh looked like the paste the teacher handed out in third-grade art class. She ran the water and splashed her face. The caked on makeup ran in black and red streaks until she scrubbed her skin clean. She wouldn’t be working again tonight, not with this face. Thank God, the John got it over with quick. He’d outweighed her by a hundred pounds and had a back full of hair that made it seem like she caressed a bear. She held her breath while he finished, and her ribs still ached from his girth.
She slogged to the bed and fell on the mattress. The room was hers for another forty minutes. Erika set the alarm and closed her eyes, her sore, exhausted body slipping into sleep. A second later, an angry fist pounded on the door.
“Go away,” she said, piling the extra pillow over her ear.
“You leave room,” said Ryo. She recognized the innkeeper’s voice. “New guest stays all night. Housekeeping come in ten minutes. You be gone, or I call police.”
Right. Ryo wouldn’t call the police. Girls like Erika kept his inn afloat. More pounding on the door got her moving.
“All right, all right. Hold your scrotum and give me a minute to get dressed.”
Erika ripped the shirt over her head and stepped into her skirt, the hem almost high enough to reveal the thong. Her feet protested the second she pulled the stilettos on. Outside the door, someone dragged a rolling suitcase. She was almost to the door when she remembered the money. The folded bills sat on her hip until it became one with her sweaty skin. She pocketed the money and shielded her eyes from the gaudy neon sign. Ryo glared from the office. She wanted to flip him off.
But she needed Ryo as much as he needed her. Her purse strap hanging off her shoulder, Erika clicked across the blacktop and angled toward the sidewalk. The money felt thin inside her pocket. A cold thought dripped into her chest before she ripped the money from her pocket and counted the bills. Dammit. The John had ripped two bills in half. The scumbag stiffed her. A helpless tear clouded her eyes as she imagined what Troy would do. Troy Dean ran the 315 Royals, the Harmon gang surrounded by whispers of white supremacy. Their rivals, the predominantly black Harmon Kings, controlled the west side of the city, the Royals ruling over the east, including the city’s red-light district. Hence, the 315 Royals ran Harmon’s prostitution. The Kings wanted in on the Royals’ business, and tensions rose between the two factions. Last week, a Royals member shot into a club owned by the Harmon Kings, a message to back off their prostitution business.
She wouldn’t call Troy. The last time she came up short, he blackened her eye and promised the next time would be worse. Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and it was ten minutes until midnight. How would she get back to Harmon? The city sat five miles north of Wolf Lake, and she couldn’t afford a taxi.
“I told you to leave,” Ryo called from the doorway.
“I’m on the sidewalk.”
“You bad for business. You go.”
Swallowing a sob, Erika turned her head and stomped down the concrete walkway, past the closed dress shops. Though spring arrived in upstate New York, winter’s breath returned at night, as though the cold hid within the shadows and ventured out after sunset. With the scourge of the Wolf Lake Inn behind her, the boulevard gave way to quaint village homes. Wolf Lake drowned in old money. She could get used to a place like this. In her fantasies, she owned a little home beside the water with a garden in the backyard. Grapes snaked up a trellis along the side of the house. With no better plan, she turned north, the darkness too thick to make out the street signs. She didn’t have the strength to walk all the way back to Harmon, and the sheriff’s department sat two miles from the inn. If a deputy caught her walking through the village, she’d spend the night in a cell. Troy would kill her if he needed to bail her out.
Flashing headlights brought her head around. She was ready to step out of her heels and run. But it w
asn’t a sheriff’s cruiser. A white SUV crawled along the curb. The driver flashed his lights again. The SUV slowed when it caught up, the driver pacing her as she followed the walkway. He drove a Chevrolet Trax. She recognized the make. A 315 Royals member named Flacco bought a used model last winter.
The stranger’s buzzed hair appeared white, as if he dyed it. His head lingered close to the SUV’s roof, his muscles rippling beneath his t-shirt. A good-looking guy in his middle or late twenties. Red splotches marred his face. Like he fell into a patch of poison ivy or had an allergic reaction to a bee sting.
“You want a ride?” the man asked after lowering the window.
Ignoring him, she walked arrow-straight past the sleepy residences, many with gated driveways.
“Long way from home, aren’t you? Come on. Hop in, and I’ll take you someplace warm.”
“Not interested.”
“Hey, I won’t turn you in. You’re not supposed to be in Wolf Lake. Climb in, and I’ll buy you a late dinner. Then who knows? We could go back to my place.”
She scoffed.
“I don’t need your charity.”
Except she did.
“Who said anything about charity? Look, I know the game.” He lowered his voice and scanned the neighborhood conspiratorially. “I’ll pay, all right? Whatever you get per hour, I’ll double it. Then I’ll drive you home so you don’t have to pay for a cab. From what I can see, I’m your only ride back to Harmon.”
Erika slowed her pace. She still felt sore from the bear-man and couldn’t escape his stench. This John was her ticket home, and Troy wouldn’t know she worked again. If she agreed, she’d be able to pay Troy and pocket the rest. Hell, she could afford to buy breakfast tomorrow morning. Still, something about this guy sent a shiver down her spine.
He paused at a stop sign, then followed Erika after she crossed a side street and continued northward.
“Look, my wife walked out on me a month ago. I’m not some creep who pays for sex all the time. I’m lonely, and I don’t want to spend all night drinking and watching sports highlights. Tell me what you make per hour.”
Erika glanced at the guy. His head hung out the window, one strong forearm resting against the sill. Red lights flared as he tapped the brakes, bathing the leafless trees in bloody colors.
“Two-eighty.”
Who the hell was she kidding? She hadn’t commanded that price since she turned fifteen and ran away from home.
“No problem. Tell you what. One hour in bed, another hour talking over a late dinner. Or an early breakfast. Your choice. Barbecued chicken or waffles with maple syrup. Like I said, I could use the companionship.”
Was this guy serious? This would be her best payday of the year. She’d pay Troy and keep four-hundred for herself. But she didn’t trust this John. Lots of guys threw around money when they laid eyes on her long legs and high cheekbones, but came up short when it was time to pay.
“Show me the money, Jerry MaGuire.”
“I’m good for it.”
“You want two hours? Show me the bills, or I walk home.”
The man stopped the SUV in front of an old Victorian home with a wrought-iron gate. Shadows from the tree branches hung over the sidewalk like the claws of some faceless beast. As she tapped a nervous foot, he wrestled the wallet from his pocket and flipped it open. She fought to hold her poker face. A thick wad of bills stretched the black leather wallet to the seams. For all she knew, the bills were singles. But when he pulled a fistful of twenties and fifties out, a happy butterfly fluttered inside her chest.
“We good now?”
She nodded.
“Then get in before a sheriff’s vehicle catches us.”
Erika rounded the vehicle. Shaking off the cold, she wiggled against the warm seats when he blasted the heat. The Trax left the curb and shot into the night. A minute later, they put the village behind them as Erika cast a wary eye at the mirrors.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Home,” he said, not pulling his eyes from the road. The dividing line swept at them in a blur. “Not far now.”
Her eyes lingered on his knuckles. They were raw and cut. A spiderweb tattoo wound around his forearm. She’d been around the block enough times to recognize a prison tat. And if he did time, he might have gang affiliations. Shit. Was he in the Kings? Rumors circulated about the Kings murdering escorts to hurt the Royals.
“Hey, I’m having second thoughts. Why don’t you drop me off here, and we’ll call it even?”
The man ignored Erika and stared through the windshield. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. Sensing something was wrong, she reached for the door handle before he engaged the child safety locks. The Trax revved faster. Stars flew at the windshield as he stomped the gas.
Fumbling in her pocket for the phone, Erika didn’t see the fist before it slammed her cheek. Her head smacked the window. She screamed before a second punch dislodged her jaw. Tires screeched as the SUV jerked to a stop. Momentum whipped her forward before the seatbelt yanked her back. As Erika’s eyes rolled back, he set a video camera on the dashboard and aimed it across the seat.
Two meaty hands circled her throat and squeezed. She flailed her legs and struck him with an ineffective punch, the seatbelt pinning her back as memories hurtled through her mind. Her father dying in a car accident when she was four. Mom’s new boyfriend sneaking into her bedroom at night when she turned twelve. Running away at fifteen to escape the rapes. Her mother following her to the red-light district of Harmon, braving the Royals as she begged Erika to come home.
Somehow, she knew prostitution would be the end of her from the day she left her mother. Starlight reflected off the knife as Erika fought to draw her last breath.
The remorseless night faded to black.
CHAPTER TWO
Thomas Shepherd pushed the button and waited at the crosswalk until traffic cleared. Even after the last car motored through the intersection, he refused to step off the curb until the sign read WALK. The sign changed, and he looked both ways. Twice. Always twice. Then strode across the thoroughfare and hopped the curb, flinching when a distant horn bayed.
Across Lagoon Road, the red brick edifice of the Nightshade County Sheriff’s Office hid behind two leafless maple trees that wouldn’t bud for another few weeks. The walk from the municipal parking lot took two minutes, five less than he’d budgeted for. Since returning to Wolf Lake, he kept noticing how small everything seemed. The houses, the roads. Even the football field behind the high school, where he ran track during his teenage years, appeared shorter than he remembered. Moving home from Los Angeles could do that to you.
He finished his bagel and tossed the napkin in the trash container as butterflies fluttered inside his chest. Interviews always set him on edge, though his resume was solid. How many times had he sat across the desk from a prospective employer and lost the job because the interviewer worried Thomas wasn’t interested?
Before he stepped inside, he checked his reflection on the dusty glass door. Nothing he could do about his unruly tangle of chestnut hair. Since he was a child, his mother had referred to it as the rat’s nest. Uncertainty nudged his heart rate. He’d always been too small and slight of build for law enforcement. The deputy crossing the hallway appeared twice his size.
Rusty hinges shrieked when he pulled the door open. He hadn’t taken two steps before a woman with orange-brown hair removed her reading glasses and stood behind her desk. My God, Maggie was still here. Maggie Tillery had been the administrative assistant for the sheriff’s department when Thomas was a kid.
“Well, I’ll be darned,” Maggie said. She crossed the entryway and drew Thomas into an embrace. “I haven’t seen you in…what has it been? Five years?”
“I moved to California a decade ago,” Thomas said, causing Maggie to draw a breath and cover her mouth. “Ten years, two months, and eleven days.” He cleared his throat. “I mean ten years.”
“Where does ti
me go? You kept your California tan,” Maggie said, holding Thomas at arm’s length. “Around here, you don’t see the sun between October and April. But you remember how it is. How are your parents?”
Thomas cleared his throat. He hadn’t talked to his parents in two years, except after his mother called about the shooting. He imagined how they’d react when the rumor mill alerted them their son lived two miles from their estate.
“You haven’t spoken to them. Nothing worse than a rift between family,” she said, shaking her head. Advice hung on the tip of her tongue before she waved it away. “Not my business, and I’m holding you up. The sheriff is expecting you.”
“Thank you, Maggie.” He turned away and stopped himself. “It’s good to see you…again.”
“This is so exciting, having you back. To think after all these years you’d return home as a sheriff’s deputy.”
“This is just an interview. I’m certain there are plenty of qualified applicants.”
Maggie touched his forearm and gave him a wink.
“If you say so. It’s good to see you again, Thomas.”
Maggie sat at her desk and pressed a button on her phone. The relic phone was the same one that slumbered on her desk when she first started. At least it was touch tone and not rotary.
“Sheriff, Thomas Shepherd is here for the deputy position.” Thomas struggled not to roll his eyes. “Yes, sir. I’ll send him right in.”
Maggie lowered the phone and motioned him down the hall.
“Sheriff Gray will see you now.”
Florescent strip lighting buzzed overhead as Thomas passed two offices on his way to Sheriff Gray’s at the end of the hall. Inside one office, a tall deputy with his hair cut military-short leaned over a desk, sifting through papers. This was the man Thomas saw through the glass doors.
Stewart Gray, Nightshade County’s venerable sheriff, wore the same whitish-gray shriek of hair he’d donned ten years ago, though a few more lines creased his features. Blowing out his big, puffy mustache, Gray looked like a caricature from a black-and-white western. Standing, Gray offered his hand.