Ames To Kill (Three Full-Length Thrillers): The Killing League, The Recruiter, Killing the Rat

by Dan Ames

  “It was…” the Tank begins. “It was just…terrible. I just went for the ball and then I heard that horrible…pop…” She shakes her head, and Peter can see that the remorse is genuine. He looks at her a bit more closely He’s touched by the honest sympathy he sees on her face, which, looking now, he sees as very pretty. In fact, she’s got deep, compassionate brown eyes, soft skin, and lips that he thinks would taste like sugar—

  Whoa, he tells himself. Maybe he’s had more to drink than he realizes. He’s in love with Beth. Well, not in love with her, but he loves her, more like a friend. They’ve shared a lot together, but he’s going to Marquette. Things will be hard, and he’s a realist. It’s just not going to last.

  He just hasn’t told Beth yet.

  I’m such a shit, he thinks.

  At the same time, his gaze lingers on the Tank—no, her name is Vanessa—and he lets it run down her firm body, the big full breasts. Much bigger than Beth’s.

  You shit, he thinks.

  Peter’s glass is topped off by a buddy, and he drains half of it. The Tank is saying something else to him, but he can’t hear her. He leans and this time slips an arm around her waist. She responds by doing the same to him. The house is shaking with the sound of rock music. It rips through Peter’s body and, combined with the booze, fills him with a sudden burst of manic energy.

  He puts his lips tightly against the Tank’s ear.

  “You want to go somewhere quieter?”

  She responds by pulling him toward the front door.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Beth feels herself swept away by the fantasy. It seems like the thought of sleeping with Peter has changed everything. It’s not that she thinks it’s the answer to her problems, not by any means. But it’s as if the decision to lose her virginity, to cement their relationship has given her a tentative foothold on her future.

  The sky has gotten even darker, and the first stars of the night are appearing. The wind has picked up, and it batters the car as Beth pulls into the Metro Beach Park. She drives past the empty swimming pool, the swing sets rusting in the open field.

  The cul-de-sac is on the northern edge of the park, a small plateau accessible by a small service road. Most people who come to the park never learn about its existence.

  Beth pulls the Cavalier into the service drive and follows the road as it swerves toward the lake. The trees clear and suddenly Beth is captivated by the sight of Lake St. Clair, the moon casting a shaft of light over the whitecaps beating against the shore.

  The parking spaces are really nothing more than small, rectangular clearings in the brush, butting up to the edge of the plateau. There is just enough room to maneuver a vehicle into the spaces, and enough room, as well as foliage, between the spaces to afford privacy.

  Beth pulls the Cavalier into a spot and puts the car in park. The heater is kicking out a steady stream of heat, and the car feels cozy. It feels good to be here. She turns the radio off and cracks the window, listens for the sound of the waves crashing into the shore. The soothing sound greets her, and she sinks deeper into her seat. Beth looks out over the water, moved by the sight of it, the sheer expansiveness. Someone told her that a big body of water can make any person’s troubles seems small. Lake St. Clair has always done that for her.

  Especially this spot.

  Oh, Peter. She imagines his face. The strong jaw, the goofy smile. She wonders what it will be like. How he’ll be.

  He’ll be great, she thinks.

  A small seed of doubt springs to life in her mind. Is she making a mistake? Is she rushing it because of her injury?

  No, she tells herself firmly. Peter has already committed to her. That night in her room when he told her about the scholarship, he said he wanted to make it work. She’s going to sleep with him because she loves him.

  And because she’s ready.

  Besides, she’d always been the one who didn’t want to take the relationship further. Maybe Peter isn’t aware of just how strong her commitment to him really is.

  Well, after she tells him what she has in mind, that will change everything. She shifts in her chair, and a shooting pain slashes through her knee. She groans, realizes she’ll have to get out of the car and change position. She shuts off the Cavalier, jams the keys in her pocket, opens the door, and leverages herself out.

  The cold wind takes her breath away, and she instantly misses the warmth of the car.

  She shuts the car door and hobbles to the edge of the plateau. It’s beautiful. Cold, but absolutely beautiful. The open water speaks to her, and her body is flooded with peaceful rhythms.

  She walks along the edge of the plateau, seeing more of the lake with each step. She passes several parking spaces.

  They’re empty.

  A loon calls from the lake, and Beth tries to pick it out of the black, choppy water. Impossible.

  Beth senses movement behind her and turns.

  One of the spaces has a car parked in it.

  No, not a car, she corrects herself.

  An SUV. A Ford SUV, to be exact. An Explorer.

  Like Peter’s.

  Beth turns and is about to continue walking when she looks back at the Explorer. It does look like Peter’s. It’s the same color. But it couldn’t be him. What would he be doing here? Did he hear about what happened to her mother? Did he come looking for her? If so, why would he be parked—

  It’s not Peter. Beth takes a step away from the Explorer, but again she stops herself.

  Without looking at the Ford, Beth closes her eyes and pictures Peter’s Explorer. There’s something in the back window. What is it? A little decal. Some kind of race. A cross-country ski race that his father does every year. What is it called? She thinks. The Trekker! That’s it.

  Beth opens her eyes and takes a few steps toward the Explorer.

  Her knee is aching, and her heart is racing. Please don’t be there, she thinks. Please, please, please don’t be there.

  When she’s close enough, she raises her eyes, and like lasers, they lock on to the decal in the bottom right corner of the Explorer’s back window.

  Trekker! it reads.

  Beth stands stock still.

  No.

  A slow, sick feeling spreads through her stomach.

  She takes a step. And then another. And another.

  She is three feet away from the side of the Explorer when she stops. The earth seems to be tilting this way and that. The stars seem to swirl above her, and the wind pushes her forward.

  A last thought enters her mind before she steps up to the window, a penitent going before the executioner, and looks inside.

  Please, Peter.

  You’re all I’ve got left.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Like all great moments of pure pleasure, there is an element of agony combined with the ecstasy.

  Peter Forbes, scrunched into the backseat of his parents’ Ford Explorer, is keenly aware of that dichotomy. He is sprawled out on the back seat, his back pressed against the side of the Explorer. His pants are off, and between his legs, the Tank is doing something she has clearly performed many times before.

  Peter has never experienced anything like it. The feeling is one of pure, intense pleasure.

  She swallows him whole. He is overwhelmed by the sensation and makes sounds he’s never made before during sex.

  The agony isn’t entirely sexual, however. For as much as his mind is inflamed by what Vanessa is doing, he can’t help but think of Beth.

  Two hours ago, he was at a party having a great time. Drinking plenty of Chad Cleveland’s booze, talking bullshit with the guys. The next, he’s talking to a girl who seems vaguely familiar. A few more drinks are down the hatch before he realizes who she is.

  A sudden burst of pleasure makes Peter shudder.

  Oh God oh god oh god.

  He shifts and Vanessa reacts. She is completely naked except for her socks, and she smiles at Peter and he closes his eyes.

  Slowly, she moves up,
and she straddles Peter, drops herself onto him. Peter nearly shouts with ecstasy as he feels himself drive deep inside her. “Oh God!” he cries in a hoarse whisper. Vanessa grunts, a deep, powerful sound. Like an animal.

  Peter feels heat run through him. His eyes are shut tightly, pure pleasure signals coming from his nerves to his brain in a relentless procession.

  He’s going over.

  His hands clench her buttocks fiercely. His body is thrusting up toward her, as hard as he can. He’s gritting his teeth. Can feel the Explorer rocking with their thrusts.

  He opens his eyes, and a white oval hovering just outside the Explorer catches his eye.

  He freezes.

  A new sensation, freezing cold, stabs at his stomach.

  “Oh God,” he says. He pulls away from Vanessa and tries to untangle his legs from her.

  “What?” she asks. She’s sweating, and her breath is in ragged gasps. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh God,” is all he can say. It’s all he’s been saying for the last twenty minutes. “Oh no. Shit!” He scrambles and gets his pants on and stumbles from the Explorer. Already, he is consumed with a head-spinning mix of guilt and panic. A million excuses, stories, rationalizations flood his mind.

  Beth is hobbling toward her car, he can hear her wailing. It’s the most heartbreaking sound he has ever heard in his life. It drives the guilt deeper inside him, like a knife. He runs after her in his bare feet. The gravel, the cold, not registering.

  “Beth, stop! Beth!”

  She stumbles and screams in pain.

  He gets to her and can see her holding her knee. Her face is catching the moon’s reflection full on—it’s covered with tears. She’s writhing on the ground, holding her knee, holding the thick brace. Peter can see snot running from her nose. Her lower lip is bleeding. She must have bitten it, he thinks.

  She struggles back to her feet and faces Peter, like a boxer who’s just gotten knocked to the canvas. Her eyes are filled with tears, her face a hurt, angry smear. All she can say is one word.

  “Her?”

  Peter opens his mouth, but all the excuses and rationalizations evade his grasp.

  Beth wails again and hobbles back to her car. He tries to help her as she stumbles forward, but as soon as he grabs her arm to help support her, she pivots and whips a backhand across his face. It snaps his head around, and the sheer force of it knocks him backward, and he lands on the ground on his butt. He can taste blood in his mouth.

  Beth screams as she drops into the driver’s seat, grabbing her leg. She slams the car door shut and starts up the engine. Peter gets to his feet. “Beth!” he calls, but she takes one more glance at him and above and behind him—toward the Explorer—before she whips off the plateau in a roar of screaming engine and spinning wheels.

  Peter hangs his head, his entire body numb with guilt, fear, shock, and cold.

  The cold seems to drive spikes through his body.

  He lifts his head and, for a moment, listens to the sound of the waves crashing on the rocks below.

  FORTY-SIX

  Julie Giacalone, a model of practical efficiency and clear focus, is daydreaming about the new recruiter. Sitting comfortably at her desk, a sheaf of papers forgotten on her desk, she is staring at a spot on the wall, her mind elsewhere.

  “Julie?”

  She jumps, the voice startling her.

  Paul Rodgers is looking at her, a curious expression on his face. “Are you all right?” he asks.

  “I’m fine.” What the hell is going on with me? Jesus Christ, what am I doing? Get a grip, Jules.

  “You looked like you were a million miles away.”

  Julie smiles, her composure returning at last. “Nope, right here.”

  Paul looks back over his shoulder. “Samuel’s back. Want me to get an update how he’s doing?”

  Julie shuffles the papers on her desk, pretends to make an important note—perhaps scheduling a meeting. “No,” she says, her manner as offhand as she can manufacture. “I’ll talk to him.”

  “Okay,” Paul says, and Julie wonders if she detected a trace of sarcasm. Whatever, she thinks. I’m the CO here. I can do whatever I want.

  Paul leaves, and Julie reconsiders her last thought. Actually, no, you can’t do whatever you want. Ever since a few recent scandals, where several sailors were accused of assault, the Navy has instituted more severe policies for dating, especially between officers and enlisted men. Julie is familiar with the rules and knows there are plenty of loopholes. Besides, they’re mostly designed to protect women from men.

  She can’t believe Samuel would be the kind to object—

  “Ma’am?”

  Julie looks up and instantly feels heat rush to her face. Samuel is standing in the doorway.

  “Paul said you wanted to speak with me.” He looks the same: lean and strong, the blue eyes intense.

  Julie curses herself. “Yes, I wanted to…get an update.”

  She watches Samuel take a seat in front of her. He moves so gracefully, no wasted motion. “How’s it going?” she asks.

  “Okay,” he says. Julie waits, figuring he’ll say more, but he doesn’t.

  “Okay? That’s it?”

  Samuel smiles easily. “Well, better than okay, I guess. My first two appointments were busts. Both cases the kids had no interest whatsoever; the parents were just using the threat of the Navy to try to get them to shape up.

  “So do you think you’ll meet your quota for the first month?”

  Samuel’s face pales. Uh-oh, she thinks. Is she pushing too hard? He just started.

  “I think I should be able to,” he answers.

  “Good, very good,” she says, more her old self. “So how is everything else going? Are you settling in?”

  “I’m home,” he says.

  “Good,” she says. Christ, that’s the third time I’ve said “good” in the last twenty seconds, she thinks. She’s making a fool of herself. But she’s drawn to him. To his quiet intensity. His body. His face. His lips. She’s making a fool of herself all right, but she’s about to make an even bigger fool of herself. But what the hell…here goes.

  “Big plans for the weekend?” she says as casually as possible, considering her fingers are knotted on the arms of her chair, and her entire body is one long, coiled muscle.

  “Oh, a little unpacking. Not much. You?”

  “I…uh…was wondering if you wanted a tour of the District. I mean, I know you’re from here, but there are some areas where we’ve been very successful in terms of recruitment numbers. Not that it’s…the tour…is work.” She feels herself blush. “And not that it isn’t…work…but—”

  “As long as we can fit a few beers somewhere,” he says. Julie raises her eyes to meet his and sees that they are clear of guile. Over the years, she’s had to learn to read people, especially young men, and although Samuel is older than most, she feels like she gets a clear reading from him. Those blue eyes aren’t lying.

  He is telling the truth.

  And the message to Julie Giacalone is crystal clear.

  He’s interested.

  In her.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  “Fischer for three!”

  Her voice echoes off into the night. It’s a thin sound, like the hollow resonance of a fake laugh. The ball bangs off the backboard and veers off into the shrubs along the house. She hobbles over to it, scoops it up, pays no attention to the fact that it’s wet and cold, and that her hands are losing their feeling. Her shoes are untied, mud caked along the white bandage. Her shirt is untucked, and her hair is in loose, wet strands. A lopsided grin is on her face as she turns and faces the basket.

  Beth reaches down to the narrow cement path that runs between the driveway and the house. The whiskey bottle is almost empty. Holding the basketball under one arm, she unscrews the cap, takes a long pull from the bottle, wipes her mouth with her sleeve, puts the cap back on, and sets the bottle down. She releases the ball from under her arm, catche
s it with the other hand, and starts dribbling the ball on the driveway. She pounds it hard against the pavement, and as drunk as she is, the movement is so natural and so ingrained that it’s a perfectly timed, perfectly executed, unconscious movement.

  “Three seconds to go, Lake Orion is down by one, all eyes are on Beth Fischer.” Her enunciation is diminished, but her volume is not. Her words broadcast far into the night. Before the last one leaves her mouth, a light appears in the house next door.

  Beth doesn’t notice.

  “She fakes left,” Beth says, then hobbles left, the pain in her knee cuts through the whiskey fog and momentarily wipes the hysterical grin from her face. She grits her teeth and bears down on the ball. “She dribbles right.” A crablike motion gets her in that direction. “She’s like poetry in motion out there folks, I gotta tell ya, I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” Beth, moving in nearly slow motion, mimes a slow head fake. “She’s got space between herself and her defender.” Beth, in a reckless but remarkably fluid motion, brings the ball from a dribble to a half hook shot. The ball sails through the air. “She shoots! The ball rotates beautifully, her follow through is magnificent…this girl has got the goddamn, motherfucking eye of the tiger, folks.” The ball careens at the basket like a missile but misses the hoop entirely and goes over the roof of the garage. She hears it bang off the roof, roll down the other side, and crash into the garbage cans. A cat hisses.

  “Whoa, that one got away from her, folks.” Beth sways on her feet, her arms upraised in mock victory. “But what do you expect? A knee made of rubber, a boyfriend fucking the opponent…it’s all just another day in the life of one Beth Fisch—”

  “Beth.”

  She whirls around

  “That’s enough,” her mother says. Anna is in a bathrobe, her hair squashed against one side of her head, sticking up on the other. Her white tube socks and slippers seem to glow in the night. “Come inside.”

  “Welcome to the game, Mom, but you’re too late. It’s over. We lost. I tried for the game-winning shot but it ended up in the garbage. Along with everything else, huh?”