by David Perry
THE CYCLOPS
CONSPIRACY
THE CYCLOPS
CONSPIRACY
DAVID PERRY
The Cyclops Conspiracy
Published by Pettigrew Enterprises, LLC
P.O. Box 1790
Grafton, Virginia 23692
For more information about our books, please write us or e-mail us at pettigrew [email protected].
Printed and bound in the United States. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the copyright holder, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in review.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011907703
ISBN-13: 978-0-9836375-0-9
ISBN-10: 0-9836375-0-4
Copyright © 2011 by Pettigrew Enterprises, LLC
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Alex,
the brightest star in my universe.
Set your sights on the heavens
and never stop going after your dreams.
“Courage does not always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice
at the end of the day saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow.’”
—Mary Anne Radmacher—
“Happy are those who dream dreams and are ready to pay the price
to make them come true.”
—Leo Joseph Suenens—
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I had no idea where this literary journey would take me. I only knew that, someday, it would be complete. After four challenging, exciting, and occasionally frustrating years working before dawn and well into the wee hours, it’s done.
No author successfully undertakes such a journey alone. Along the way I’ve dragged many generous souls into my adventure. Without their time and assistance, you would not be holding this work.
First, I am deeply indebted to several law enforcement officers for their expertise: from the York County Sheriff’s Office, Captain James Richardson; from the Newport News Police Department, Lou Thurston, Public Information Officer; Sergeant Rick Gaddis, Homicide Unit; Master Police Detective Linda Gaddis, Economic Crimes Unit; Master Police Detective Lorain Crain, Economic Crimes Unit and United States Secret Service Task Force; and from the Virginia State Police, Pamela Jewell, Public Relations Manager of the Insurance Fraud Program.
Thanks to all of you for your time and insight, as well as your dedicated service to our state and communities. At various points in the novel, I have taken literary license with some law enforcement procedures. Please forgive me.
I am also grateful for the assistance of Dr. Cheryl Lawson, Emergency Medical Services Medical Director and Clinical Operations Section Chief at Riverside Regional Medical Center, and Dr. Wendy Gunther at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner of Virginia. Their medical and forensic insights were invaluable.
To my editor, Frances Elliott, thanks for your careful reading of the manuscript, superb insights and suggestions.
I am indebted to Elaine Lattanzi and Shelley Sapyta for ensuring that this project saw the light of day.
To Carol Cipoletti and Ede Ashworth at Burke High School in Morgantown, West Virginia: Carol, thanks for being a good friend and an inspiration. Ede, thank you for the Latin translations. I’d like to also thank Rich “Sorry About Your Bad Luck” Stratton for allowing me to borrow a great catchphrase.
To my brother, Scott: words cannot express the love and gratitude I feel knowing you’re only a speed dial away. Thanks for always having my back.
To Anne Wood: thanks for plowing through the manuscript. Your love and support keep me grounded and have taught me what generosity and true selflessness are. I hope I’ve been able to give them back to you in equal measure. Thanks for your patience and your understanding of my complex life, a life which is enormously richer with you in it.
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
Tuesday, September 19
Jason waited for the door to his tortured past to swing open.
Having just rung the bell, he fidgeted on the stoop. His secret had haunted him for thirteen years. Separated from it now by only a thickness of wood and glass, he couldn’t believe he was actually standing here, once again, after all these years.
The door opened, and a hunched old woman peered at him. “I’m Jason—Jason Rodgers,” he said, the words catching in his throat.
“Chrissie warned me you might be coming by,” croaked the elderly woman in a heavy Italian accent, pulling her shawl tighter around her frail shoulders. “Please come in.” Her voice was filled with kindness, but her eyes penetrated Jason Rodgers as if she were already familiar with his history.
Over the years, the deep pain had faded, leaving only hollow regret. His secret had been confined to a dull ache in the recesses of his analytical mind. Every once in a while, though, a sight or a sound would trigger an agonizing flashback. He’d remember the pained look on Chrissie’s face. Or the hangdog visage of his mentor, Thomas, Chrissie’s father.
Those ghostly memories never really went away, and now they stirred as Jason stepped through the door into the Newport News, Virginia, colonial-style house. It had been Thomas Pettigrew’s home for thirty-plus years and where he’d picked Chrissie up for their first date. His lungs seized, unable to push out air.
Though not responsible, Thomas had been at center stage in the episode that had nearly ended Jason’s pharmacy career before it began and—at the same time—doomed his love affair with Chrissie. The man’s tutelage had shaped Jason’s pharmacy career. In the thirteen years since he’d left, Jason felt as if he’d failed both of them. The least he could do was attend the funeral of the man who’d given him his start.
He’d seen Chrissie graveside. It was an awkward reunion, one that Jason had both highly anticipated and deeply dreaded. Thomas was, after all, her father. She had every right to be pissed off at Jason. Her first reaction was a nervous smile and a stiff hug. They exchanged a few words, and then she made an offer that shocked him: to join her at her father’s house for the funeral reception. His internal struggle was a monumental one, but in the end, Jason knew it was an invitation he would not decline. Nonetheless, he was daunted by the thought of actually setting foot in this house again; of actually talking for the first time in years to the only woman he’d ever really loved.
Long ago, his actions had blindsided her, in an excruciatingly painful way. Of course, he hadn’t been around to see the pain he’d caused. But Jason knew how deeply Chrissie had loved him. He could deduce from the agony he himself had suffered that Chrissie’s pain was magnified by unanswered questions. For many reasons, and for many years, he’d hoped and prayed for the opportunity to make her understand his actions.
The old woman said “warned.” Despite the ominous implications of the word, a question nagged him. Had Chrissie been thinking about him after all these years?
“Did you find the house all right?” asked the old woman, her voice chalky and exhausted by life.
Jason nodded. “Yes, thank you,” he replied, unable to force more than a whisper past the lump in his throat. I’ve been here before! he thought.
She offered him a hand spider-webbed with blue veins. “I’ve been Thomas’s neighbor for five years. I’ve been helping Chrissie with the funeral. I’m experienced with this sort of thing—my Giuseppe passed last year.”
Jason frowned, unable to muster any sympathy for the woman. “I’m sorry,” he said mechanically, looking over her shoulder to the small gath
ering of mourners.
“You and Chrissie were lovers many years ago, weren’t you?”
Jason’s gut clenched, and she saw his reaction. “I see the pain in her eyes when she speaks of you. These eyes,” she said, tapping her temple and then her chest, “and this heart have seen a lot.” She leaned closer. “What happened?”
Jason stepped back, too stunned to answer her question.
“I know it’s forward of me,” she said, touching his arm as if keeping him from running away. “But I’m an old lady who doesn’t have much time left. I speak my mind. No time for bullshit! And I see it in Chrissie’s eyes—she truly loved you. Whatever you did wrong, you might still have a chance with her.”
Jason felt his eyebrows lift at the audacity of the woman’s words. What stung more was their accuracy. It had been more than a decade since Jason had dumped Christine. And only one other person on earth had known why. Thomas, Chrissie’s father, had sworn Jason to secrecy. But Thomas was gone now. That left Jason holding the secret like a rucksack filled with the weight of a thousand universes.
Was he released from his obligation now that Thomas was gone? Jason had asked himself that question a hundred times in the last few days.
The old woman waved a hand. “But there are more pressing matters today, no?”
“Yes,” said Jason, relieved the conversation was veering in another direction.
“Thomas’s death was so tragic and so sudden,” she said, placing a hand to her cheek. “He was un uomo buono.”
“What?”
“A good man.” She leaned in once more. “I’ll tell Chrissie you’re here. There’s food and drink in the kitchen if you’re hungry.” She winked a paper-thin eyelid. “Good luck! Tread lightly!”
Jason shook his head slowly as he watched her shuffle through a klatch of mourners. He waited nervously in the foyer. Guests cast him sideways glances. He avoided them and studied the once-familiar surroundings.
The décor hadn’t changed. This house had been his second home during their courtship. The familiar layout was thick with painful memories. The sparkle in Chrissie’s eye as she descended the stairs on their first date. Bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches at the kitchen table. Late-night movies on the television, ignored in the darkened living room as hands probed hungry flesh beneath blankets.
Outside, the house had not seen a fresh coat of paint in years, though Jason noticed a small satellite dish sloppily attached to a downstairs window. Apparently, Thomas had made a weak attempt to enter the new century.
The six-foot portrait of Thomas and his wife, Eleanor, still hung on the same wall in the foyer. No one who entered could miss it. Thomas stood regally behind his wife as she sat in an ornate chair, smiling stiffly. The gilded frame’s tiny crevices were caked with dust. Surrounding the piece, the wallpaper’s glow had faded to a dull, matte finish.
Jason overheard a woman whispering about the tragic circumstances of Pettigrew’s death. The word “alcohol” reached his ear as if Satan himself had hissed it. Jason glared at the woman, ready to walk over to her and set her straight. But she was too engrossed in herself to notice him. His outrage rose another few degrees. There was no way he’d driven drunk! Not Thomas Pettigrew!
It was then that he spied Chrissie in the living room speaking with two older women. Probably acquaintances of Thomas. She was not facing him, but he studied her face from an angle. To say Christine was attractive was a gross understatement. She was drop-dead, you’re-in-heaven-before-hitting-the-floor gorgeous. Her chestnut hair cascaded to her shoulders, curling gently behind petite ears. Sexy and understated, the style framed a perfect face and reminded you that a brain that crunched numbers like a supercomputer resided beneath. Her conservative dress, a tan blazer with matching skirt, low brown pumps, and an ivory blouse open at the neck, could never hide the firm curves of ample breasts and sleek hips. Then there were the eyes. The sweet caramel gaze would, Jason knew, still clench his soul the moment it was directed his way.
Her cherubic appearance and rambunctious, passionate nature had, most certainly, been tempered by the travails of life. Travails to which, he was certain, he had in no small part contributed. What had happened in her life? What had he given up? The sight of her told him one thing: she was not a frail, broken woman crushed by the weight of a failed love. Hers was a tested, demure confidence set in an unflappable foundation of femininity.
Christine caught his eye, excused herself from the women, and walked toward him. As she approached, Jason’s stomach flipped as if he were on the first death-defying plunge of a roller coaster. God, she’s still gorgeous, he thought.
Her lips formed a thin line. “Jason,” she said. “I’m glad you could come.” Her eyes were rimmed in red as she forced a smile and took his hands in hers.
Her voice sparked something in his chest. “I’m so sorry about your father, Chrissie. He was a great man, and a giant in pharmacy,” he said softly. “He gave me my start.”
“I remember, Jason. I was there,” she replied, releasing his hands. “Come into the kitchen.”
They faced each other from across a small island.
“How are you?” she asked stiffly. “Are you still over at Keller’s?” Her eyes alternated uncomfortably between the counter and Jason.
“Actually,” he replied. “I’m sort of between jobs right now.” He didn’t mention that, only three days ago, he’d resigned from his position as pharmacy manager at Keller’s Food and Drug. The poor and potentially dangerous working conditions, which he’d tried so hard to redress, had finally defeated him.
“Really? Daddy told me a year or so ago that you seemed to love it over there.”
“How would he know? I hadn’t spoken to him in years.”
“He had a lot of connections in pharmacy. He kept tabs on you, I’m sure. So, why the change?”
“Well,” he said, ignoring the question, “I’m not completely out the door yet. They’re trying to lure me back.”
“Interesting.” The word had an ominous tone. Unasked questions and issues floated beneath the surface like submerged icebergs.
“The question is, how are you?” asked Jason. “I know how hard all this is.” He meant to sound solicitous. But after all this time and his lengthy absence, it sounded lame to his own ears.
“Thanks. It’s easier than it looks.”
“What do you mean?”
Christine waved the question away. The old woman returned with a glass of iced tea for Jason. “Would you like some swedish meatballs or finger sandwiches?” she asked Jason.
“No, thank you.” Jason set the glass on the counter and ignored it.
The woman looked at them. “Christine, if you need anything I’ll be in the living room.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Liggieri.”
“She seems like a big help,” he said, when they were alone again. He thought about the woman’s earlier comments and cringed.
“You have no idea. The night Daddy died—” She choked. “I came to the house looking for him. When I couldn’t find him, I called the police. Mrs. Liggieri came over to make sure everything was all right. Later, after we found out he was—dead—she helped me with everything. I think she enjoys it. She knows how to bury someone properly.” Moisture glistened in her eyes.
Jason smiled and said, “Old people always do.”
Christine chuckled, blinking back tears. He wanted to reach out to her, to comfort her. But he was too far away, physically and emotionally, so he stood frozen in place.
Mrs. Liggieri reappeared. “Christine, honey,” she said, “Ms. Zanns and her doctor friend have stopped by.”
On the heels of the old woman strutted a small, elegant woman dressed in a navy business suit. She wore no expensive jewelry or rings, yet wealth and authority oozed from her. Her prim ensemble contrasted oddly with an ancient-looking amulet hanging from her neck. Wisps of gray dotted her temples, but her smooth skin gleamed like tan porcelain. The woman appeared irritated at the slow
gait of Chrissie’s neighbor, as if she were late for a meeting and did not have time to be held up.
Close behind the new woman followed a tall, lithe, and much younger woman. They were introduced to Jason as Lily Zanns and Dr. Jasmine Kader.
“Please,” Zanns instructed Jason when he used their last names. “It’s Lily and Jasmine.” Zanns turned to Christine. “I apologize, Christine, but Sam couldn’t be here. With your father’s passing, we have a hole in our staffing. He’s covering the pharmacy until we can find a suitable replacement. Of course, I don’t think anyone could replace your father.” Her thick Mediterranean-French accent was roughened by a guttural throatiness.
Christine forced another tight smile. “Thank you, Lily.” Mrs. Liggieri motioned to her once again. “I’d better go see what my neighbor needs. Excuse me.”
Kader, Zanns, and Jason smiled stiffly, enduring a pregnant awkwardness.
Jason broke the silence. “So you own the Colonial now?” It was more statement than question. Thomas Pettigrew had sold the Colonial Pharmacy to this woman three or four years earlier. Pharmacists Jason had spoken to over the years had given her stewardship mixed reviews.
“Yes,” replied Zanns. “For three and a half years now.”
“And Thomas stayed on to work for you?”
“Yes, he said he wasn’t quite ready to retire.” She paused, then added, “His death was so…tragic.”
Jason nodded solemnly. Jasmine Kader caught his eye. They shared an awkward smile.
“And how is it that you knew Thomas?” Zanns inquired.
“I was a pharmacy student of his.”
“Of course. The pharmacy profession, like most, is a small community, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. In fact, I work at Keller’s, and I’ve filled many of the prescriptions your colleague Jasmine here has written.”