Outlier: One mistake can destroy everything.

by Jacob Mesmer

  Outlier

  Jacob Mesmer

  jacobmesmer.com

  ©Jacob Mesmer

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Healer

  The New Thriller by Jacob Mesmer

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  Other Books by Mesmer

  10,000

  Security

  Strippers

  Zero Sum

  Jesus People

  Painter

  Gardener

  Family

  Charlie

  Grifter

  Postman

  Lucky

  Fixer

  Pharaoh

  Ram

  Healer

  Sean Lovac Series

  Outlier

  Beta Test

  Swarm

  Mind Machine

  Mine

  Chapter One

  Friday night. Six p.m. Their normal dinner date. Her place. Sean was about to leave his small one-bedroom apartment. One last check and he was out the door. It was only a two-minute drive across the very small town of Rockport, Texas to Sheryl’s house, his girlfriend of ten years. His first girlfriend. His only girlfriend. And if he didn’t get hit by a meteor or swallowed up by a sinkhole in the next three minutes, she would become his fiancée, and then his wife.

  They’d talked about it obliquely, hinting at it. Weaving the assumption into their otherwise normal conversations that it was going to happen. They both knew it was coming. They half-joked about it the way young couples in love do. They half-seriously discussed their future while driving by houses for sale. They talked about their future family and imagined how many kids they’d have.

  He’d known this for about nine years. They had first met at Rockport-Fulton High School and—stereotypically—they were inseparable. For a while, he thought there might be trouble when he went to Texas A&M. Long-distance relationships never worked out, but he made sure this one did.

  That’s why he had turned down the job at the FBI. The recruiter had told him his profile was perfect. Sean had a flawless academic record, a reaction time in the top 1%, rational reasoning levels in the stratosphere, and critical thinking skills that blew away every psych test. Agent Alan Long, the FBI recruiter who still kept tabs on him, had read his results and known he had to have him. Guys like Sean Lovac didn’t come around often. When they did, recruiters like Agent Long (now on special assignment on domestic terrorism) didn’t give up easily.

  At 27, Sean was the youngest detective ever in Aransas County. The girls at college swooned over him because of his chiseled features and powerful frame. But he didn’t stray.

  Sean hadn’t been without the troubles that a long-distance relationship creates. Sheryl wasn’t too anxious to leave their small town behind; she’d become a teacher at the high school since getting her degree and loved it. She loved the kids and loved seeing them flourish. Sean loved that about her. The choice was easy: big-time FBI agent or small-town detective? Rockport didn’t have much crime, since it didn’t have many people.

  Long was persistent. Marry the girl, he said, and move to Houston. Wouldn’t she rather be the wife of a big-time FBI agent than a small-town detective? Surely she’d get as much fulfillment teaching in Dallas as she could in Rockport. But Sean wouldn’t budge. Sheryl had ties to Rockport, as did he—ties that would last several more years. All his friends were there, and his father was there. Why rock the boat? Why mess up a good thing? He could have an easy life, with decent pay and a fantastic girl. What more could a guy want?

  Sean pulled into the parking lot of the Dairy Queen to practice. He knew what he was going to say; she knew what he was going to say. But this wasn’t something you messed up. This was something you only did once. He looked at the ring: two carats, in some kind of setting that had sounded perfect when it was described to him.

  He checked himself in the rearview mirror and took a deep breath. He didn’t have doubts, and he wasn’t second-guessing himself. So why was he so nervous? Maybe it was one of those things that always happens, like shooting a guy, for example. No matter how many times you practiced at the range and on the competition course, it was never like the real thing. Time after time he’d been at the top of his class at the academy. He had never shot an innocent target, always hitting the bad guy right in the heart with a very tight cluster.

  But when he’d pulled his gun out for real, his heart had nearly exploded from his chest; however, the force of his presence was so overpowering that the bad guy had immediately given up. Sean had never forgotten that experience. All that practice had convinced him his gun was his weapon. But when he had looked at the suspect (now an inmate) with such fierce and directed anger, he’d discovered something.

  He’d gotten the call after being on the force only a couple of months: there was a robbery in progress at the liquor store. Who in their right mind would rob a liquor store in a town where everybody knows everybody? More importantly, who robs a liquor store in a small Texas town where everybody’s got a gun?

  When he’d shown up, the perp had nearly given up. The clerk, a local, had been in the middle of explaining how the safe was on a time lock, and he’d handed over all the cash from the register—all $23.17 of it. The perp was just starting to realize his error when Sean showed up, gun drawn. It had been an easy arrest, no resistance. Open and shut.

  Only it’d taken Sean a full three hours to cool back down and get his pulse and blood pressure back to normal. That’s what adrenaline does to you. The same adrenaline that was pumping through his veins as he practiced his proposal speech for the millionth time.

  “All right,” he said, taking a slow, deep breath, “let’s get this over with!”

  Two minutes later he pulled up in front of her house. There was a big window on the right behind an expertly manicured lawn. The horizontal blinds were halfway closed, so he could just see the outline of the furniture. A white cement walkway was on the left; just eight squares led from the sidewalk to the house. She had a green metal screen door; the handle was on the left side, and the front door was closed. What made Sean a great detective made him lousy in situations like this. Enough stalling; just get out of the car and get it over with!

  As he walked up the white path one square at time, he wondered if he might pass out, or what she might think if she peeked out the window. While he was fairly certain that she wasn’t aware he was going to propose on this particular day, he was pretty sure she knew this was coming. In fact, if he’d taken any more time, she would have pushed the issue. Or everybody else who knew them would push the issue. He knew that when they told their friends, nobody would be surprised; they’d only say that superhero Detective Lovac had taken his sweet time in getting up the nerve to ask her.

  He opened the screen door and knocked. He never knocked. But he wanted this to be official and something to remember from start to finish. Maybe he was just too nervous to remember what to do. No answer. He knocked again; there was still no answer. There was no sound or movement coming from within. He checked over his left shoulder, even though he knew her car was in the driveway. Sean knocked again, but there was still no answer; he couldn’t even hear shower sounds keeping her from answering. Curious. Maybe she had gone for a walk, but Sheryl never does that, preferring to hit the gym before school. Besides, she’d been cooking him dinner at her place every Friday night since he’d come back with a degree in Criminal Justice.

  A slight bit of worry crept into his pre-proposal anxiety. He pulled out his keys and opened the lock as he’d done thous
ands of times before.

  “Sheryl?” he asked. No answer. Strange. Shit. Now what? Wait? Should he get on one knee and face the door? What if she walked in with her mom? Or her friends? He’d never hear the end of it. Maybe he should go back outside and get back in his car.

  He backed out, deciding not to wait inside. Maybe he’d wait in the car and pretend he’d just arrived. He pulled out his phone to text her. He waited a few minutes for her reply; there was no answer. This wasn’t normal—she always texted him right back. He dialed her number. Her phone started ringing; he could hear it inside the house. Mixed in with the distinctive ringtone was the vibrating sound; only it wasn’t vibrating on a wooden table. It sounded more like tile. The tile floor of her kitchen.

  Something was wrong.

  Chapter Two

  He swung her front door open on the third ring and sprang toward the kitchen. What he saw next was immediately burned into his brain, where it would remain for the rest of his life. She was lying on the ground, surrounded by red. Her eyes were wide, staring and lifeless. Drying blood was oozing from both of them as well as from her nose and ears. Her mouth was slightly open as if she were trying to say something. The phone was inches from her hand.

  If she had been an unknown victim, he would have guessed she had stood up from the kitchen table, moved a couple feet toward the front door with her phone in her right hand, and then collapsed. Because the phone was close to her hand, he could tell she hadn’t collapsed quickly. More like she had been trying to sit down on a chair that wasn’t there. Maybe bracing her fall on the ground with her non-phone hand while trying to dial with her right hand. Only no numbers had been punched in. The whole event would have lasted only a couple seconds.

  But this wasn’t an unknown vic. This was his future wife. The mother of his future children. The one and only reason he had turned town the lucrative position with the FBI. None of these thoughts were processing in his shocked mind, now screaming wordless sounds of agony and torture. From Sean’s perspective, one instant he saw her lifeless eyes; the next he was cradling her blood-soaked head, screaming. He didn’t realize how loud, nor that it was the sounds of his cries that alerted the neighbor, who called 911.

  *****

  “Take it easy, Sean; let us handle everything,” Greg was saying. Sean didn’t know how long he’d been there. Greg was one of the only two other cops in town besides Sean. The paramedics were busy collecting the body. No pulse. No vitals. “You gonna be OK?” he asked. “I’m gonna have a look around.” Sean nodded, barely looking up.

  Greg checked the front door lock, all the windows, and the door in back leading out to the large yard, looking for any signs of forced entry. Any signs of tools. He walked out and looked carefully around the back, but nothing was out of place. He’d been to Sheryl’s house many times before for barbecues or parties, because Sean’s place was small. Sean got along with his dad, but not enough to share a roof. He was saving up by living in a one-bedroom.

  Nobody went to Sean’s house. Sheryl’s place, on the other hand, was big. It was perfect for parties. School parties, police parties, mixtures of both. Greg continued to look around. A lot of things had happened in this backyard; a lot of beers had been drunk, meat had been barbecued, poor jokes had been told and retold. A couple of near-fistfights between teachers who had had too many, only to be forgotten the next day.

  Sheryl lived there alone and visited her mom on the weekends. She’d grown up there. Learned to ride a bike in that driveway, on that very sidewalk out in front. The same sidewalk where the paramedics were wheeling her body away and onto their bus.

  “Who did this? How did this happen?” Sean asked, his voice trembling, bloodied hands still shaking.

  “Dunno buddy, but I fucking promise you we are going to find out,” Greg replied, not able to make eye contact nor able to tell him that there were zero signs of foul play.

  Greg contemplated who could have done something like this. There was a lot of blood—not like his uncle, who had had a brain hemorrhage. That was just a couple drops out of the ears. This was a lot, and not just blood. There was something more viscous, fibrous even; maybe brain matter?

  Greg didn’t want to think about it. He’d leave that to the coroner. Now, what to do? Take Sean home? Call his dad? With over forty years on the force, he still had a uniform. Greg had seen his share, even for a small town. There were drug killings and bar fights that went way too far. A couple of bodies washed up on the beach, bloated from floating around in the gulf. Nothing like this.

  “C’mon, buddy, lemme take to you to your dad’s,” he finally said. “Let the boys work over this place and we’ll see what they find. Now you need to go somewhere else. His place, OK?”

  “No. Take me home,” Sean said distantly, as if hearing somebody else use his mouth to make those sounds he could barely understand.

  *****

  It had taken three minutes to get there, and it had gone by way too fast. Going back felt like an eternity, almost like they were driving through some kind of time sludge that forced everything into painfully slow motion. Greg said he’d hoof it back and get his car; not to worry.

  What if I’d been early? Sean wondered. What if I hadn’t stopped to practice? What if I’d asked her two years ago like I should have? What if I hadn’t counted the squares or stood there knocking like an idiot?

  Who would do something like this? He started to think like a detective, trying to avoid the pain that would eventually come.

  His shift in thinking slightly bothered him. His thoughts became more analytic, planning and reviewing the facts with less emotion. He’d been with Sheryl nearly half his life. She’d been his first kiss and his first lay. He knew he’d grieve later. He knew once he was alone and had a drink or two, he’d privately let loose an unrelenting torrent of pain. The same way he had when his mom died. Correction. When she’d been killed. He had been stoic when he heard it, and he remained stone-faced at the funeral. But once alone, after a couple shots of Jack, he had let loose. He knew it would come this time too, so he put it aside.

  He was just now beginning to process what had happened. Sheryl was dead, and there was a lot of blood. This didn’t just happen. Somebody did this to her. But why? Who? What was the motive?

  His shock slowly turned to rage—a rage he wanted to unleash. Take your time, he said to himself. Use your skills. Explode now and they’ll take you off the case. He let that sink in, but he knew they wouldn’t even let him take the case in the first place. He was too close.

  Who else would head up the investigation? Greg? He was a good cop, but not a detective. The other cop? Nope. Not the chief, who had a bad back and only left the station—or his own home—when he absolutely needed to. Somebody from San Antonio or Houston would most likely be assigned. Maybe he’d call Alan. Alan was always willing to lend a hand.

  Yeah, that’d work. His yet-to-be-embraced grief was completely replaced by focused anger. An anger that he purposely transformed into a plan. A by-the-book plan to find the guy who had done this. Alan had resources, FBI resources, and Alan was always willing to lend a hand if he thought it would turn Sean around.

  Sean let that sink in. Now what? After we find out who did this, do I stay here in Rockport? Dad’s still here; his friends are still here. He’d string Alan along to get as much help and as many resources as he could. Right now all he wanted to do was find out who did this and why—and to try and understand.

  He focused on that thought as they pulled up to his apartment.

  Chapter Three

  Saturday, 10 a.m.

  “So, tell me what you’ve got,” Ronald commanded in his gravelly voice. Chief Hernandez didn’t like this at all. According to Greg, and he himself who had checked out the house, the crime scene—which was not really a crime scene, in his opinion—was completely clean. There were no signs of forced entry, and nothing had been disturbed.

  Alex, the other local cop on the force, had given it another once-over.
She, too, had been there plenty of times. She had drunk too much and puked in the backyard a few times like they all had. Nothing was out of place or missing from the house. No money or credit cards had been taken from her purse.

  When the time was right, they’d ask Sean to double check. Maybe there was something hidden that only he had known about and somebody else had discovered, but that was doubtful. Sheryl didn’t make much, so she couldn’t have had much. Neither did Sean. His family didn’t have money; his dad had just retired and was drawing a meager pension.

  As far as they could tell, if somebody had done this, it must have been somebody who knew her. Knew her well enough to have a key or be let in. Which would make solving this easy, but getting killed by somebody you knew was bad news. Especially in a town this small. Everybody would know. What would that do to Sean? Ronald doubted Sean would be able to function.

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” Dr. Nguyen, the coroner, said. “No blunt trauma. No cuts, no bruises. It’s as if everything was somehow forced out through any exit that could be found. Which doesn’t make sense.”