Rough Country: A gripping crime thriller

by T. J. Brearton

  Crane was silent, listening.

  “It was out of character with the area. Anyway, it was just something.”

  “Do you ever regret leaving divinity school?”

  Interesting segue. “No, I don’t regret it. But what it was – after a point, you’re not allowed to ask any more questions on religion. Or that’s how it seemed to me. And I kept asking them. So I guess you could say… it didn’t gel with my investigative mind.”

  “But you can understand faith. The act of faith.”

  “Sure, of course. Sometimes… Oh, I see what you’re doing.” Reed wagged a finger.

  Crane scowled, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “What am I doing?”

  “Yeah, you’re going to bring this whole thing full circle. We’re going to take this case, and talk about my military career, and my one year at divinity school, my daughter – you’re going to wrap it all up somehow. They’re all connected.”

  The twitch turned into a smile. “Well, sure, they’re all connected. They’re all a part of your life.”

  “Nah, that’s not where you were going. You had something. I threw you off. No, go ahead. Come on, do your thing.”

  Crane was fully laughing now. “I don’t have a thing, I swear. Listen, how’s your son?”

  “Mike is good,” Reed said soberly. “I’m going over there right after seeing you. We’re going fishing. Up in the Adirondacks.”

  “Oh, you’re going back?”

  “Couple of nice spots I saw while up there. And a little cabin for sale. Well, more like a little shack…”

  Crane was smiling again. “I think that’s great.”

  “The kid doesn’t like it, though. No Wi-Fi.”

  They talked until the end of the session, just ten more minutes, with Reed thinking about Mike and then some more about Virginia. About starting over. At long last, moving on from a past that had hounded him. At least, about taking a few steps in that new direction.

  He shook Crane’s hand and wished him a good week.

  When Reed reached the door, Crane said, “Hey. You’re doing well.”

  “All right,” Reed said. “Thanks.”

  And he went out into the hot June afternoon.

  ——————————————

  If you enjoyed Rough Country, then you’ll love Into Darkness, book one in T.J.’s bestselling FBI series featuring Shannon Ames:

  “One of my favorite authors. His thrillers are taut, twisty, unsettling, and deliciously creepy.” – Lisa Regan

  GET IT HERE!

  INTO DARKNESS

  By T.J. Brearton

  They have been judged. The verdict – guilty. The sentence – death.

  Two beautiful young women are found strangled, their bodies meticulously washed and groomed. The only thing they have in common – both worked as reporters for local TV stations.

  A coincidence? Or something more sinister?

  Rookie Special Agent Shannon Ames is assigned to the case and soon impresses with her brilliant intuition and startling ability to think outside the box.

  But as Shannon takes a more prominent role in the investigation, she finds herself drawn into a deadly dance with a master of deception, a serial killer whose victims all work in media – journalists, influencers, reporters.

  Shannon’s superiors are convinced it’s part of some grand attack on the free press, but she has a hunch these killings are much more targeted. And she follows that hunch - straight into the heart of darkness…

  GET IT HERE!

  Preview INTO DARKNESS

  Chapter One

  Water. That was the first thing. A sense of floating. The sound of water, as if in a sink or a tub, gently lapping.

  Then it changed. Instead of being the one suspended in liquid, she was holding her baby in the tub. Joe, her firstborn. An infant, with the remainder of the umbilical cord like a purple tag stuck on his belly.

  Joe.

  And then there was his sister, Kyle. But they were teenagers now. Practically grown up …

  Her weight somehow shifted. Someone was holding her – a hand at the back of her neck, propping her up. She tried to move her arms and legs, but her limbs failed to respond.

  This was a weird dream. A tough one to wake up from. She tried opening her eyes – but wow, they were heavy, the lids like thick canvas.

  There – she saw something. A person. As if hovering above her. Manipulating her in the water. Something brushed against her flesh, a rag or a sponge. The astringent stink of cleaning chemicals hung in the air …

  The person was all in white, like some kind of doctor. A mask over his face. Thick eyebrows threaded gray over his dark eyes.

  “Almost done,” he said. “Almost time, Monica.”

  Monica tried moving again and managed to twitch the first two fingers of her right hand. Bizarre, surreal – she could practically feel the signal travel down her arm from her brain. The fingers jerked in the water, not quite hot water, but warm, just warm enough to keep her from shivering.

  She fought to keep her eyes open and she stared up. Yes, it was a man. Yes, he was dressed entirely in a white jumpsuit and wearing a blue surgical mask over his nose and mouth. And he was bathing her. God, it was becoming the worst dream she’d ever had. This man was bathing her for some reason, like she used to bathe her little babies in the tub …

  A flash memory: the subway ride home. Emerging from the station. The parked car, the man standing beside it. He walked over to her, and she hadn’t been afraid, no – he’d been dressed quite differently then. But those were his eyes.

  This was the same man cradling her now, scrubbing her down.

  He raised a gloved hand from the water – blue, same color as the face mask – holding a yellow sponge. He squeezed the sponge and the water squirted out, and he set it down out of sight. She tried to move again, to get more out of that right hand, and was just able to make a loose fist. The man was doing something beyond her field of view, and she worked on her legs, her knees. If she could bend a knee and get her feet planted …

  You’ve been abducted.

  Not yet – don’t think that yet.

  This is no dream.

  His face came back, looming over her, and he looked somewhere just above her eyes, and she felt his fingers in her hair. “I washed it out,” he said. “Probably not your usual shampoo.”

  She tried to speak. What she summoned was a mumbled “Hmmpf.” Her voice sounded like it was coming down a long tunnel.

  Drugged. He drugged you. The effects are just wearing off.

  She squeezed her right hand again. Made the fist tighter. Well, tight enough to hold a bag of potato chips, anyway. A start.

  Oh God oh God oh God …

  “We’re going to get you out of there now.”

  He moved away, and she was left staring up at ductwork suspended from a high ceiling. Where was this? What was this?

  She tried to recall more detail from the street, more about the parked car and the man and what she felt when he stepped toward her. Nothing more came. She could only remember with confidence leaving work and taking the usual trains home. Emerging onto her Brooklyn street, and walking.

  He’d called to her – “Excuse me, miss …”

  And she’d trusted him. She’d let him approach her. Then things grew murky. Between that moment to waking up in water was pitch-black nothing.

  And now he was bathing her. Cleaning her – cleaning with vigor, from the smell. Was that bleach?

  She saw him stand up out of the corner of her eye and walk away. She heard the squeak of a wheel a moment later, like he was rolling something over the floor. A fresh rime of terror curled around her spine: They said Eva Diaz was spotless when they found her. Like she’d been sanitized, all evidence of her assailant removed …

  Diaz was a reporter. Had been a reporter. For WNBC’s Channel 2. Found dead two weeks ago. Strangled to death and dumped in Maspeth, Queens, without a speck of DNA on her, not a trace o
f semen nor stray hair belonging to her killer.

  Her killer. This man. The one who seemed to be painstakingly preparing her for the same fate.

  He was suddenly back, looming above her. He leaned down and slipped his arms beneath her and hoisted her up. She tried to scream, but managed only more garbled moans. She sought to kick, but her foot merely wiggled on its ankle. He looked at her as he carried her. His eyes were even darker. She managed to reach up with her working arm and touch his face ineffectually; her fingers flapped his lower lip, dragged down his chin, and her arm fell back onto her chest as he set her down.

  He began to dry her off. The cloth worked against her flesh. She said, “Aaaaaahhhh!” in a rising voice. The sound she made terrified her further, and the hot tears rolled down her cheeks.

  When he was finished, he placed a fresh towel over her and began to move her. She was on wheels now. A hospital gurney, or something like it. She watched more ductwork overhead. And pipes; plumbing. Everything echoed. The spaciousness, the stink of rust and oil – something was familiar. A story she’d done: “The Abandoned Places of Brooklyn and Queens.”

  Oh God. Eva Diaz.

  Diaz had been a field reporter. Beautiful, trim, mocha-colored skin – she’d looked like another Eva, the actress Eva Mendes. Diaz was younger than Monica by a decade at least, but Monica was pretty, too. They’d coaxed Monica out of the back room where she’d been a media producer for ABC-7 since graduating college, and stuck her in front of the cameras. It paid better and she’d grown inured to the stage fright. She liked her cast and crew – they had a good show. Late morning, the kind where you bake cakes and talk about movies and, occasionally, substantive issues like ISIS or intelligent automation. Not too much, though – you didn’t want to upset the middle-aged, Midwestern female demographic.

  But she was on TV daily; that was the point. Had been for years now. Five days a week. Just like Diaz, up there on the screen for the world to see. For a man like this to see. For a man who strangled Eva Diaz with some kind of tensile cord or belt, they said. Strangled her until she saw stars and her eyes bulged and throat burned and she blacked out forever. Washed her body down like some kind of living doll.

  Monica tried to scream again, and this time produced a louder moan. She tried moving some more and realized that, while she was steadily regaining control, he’d strapped her to the gurney, or whatever it was he was pushing her on – and now stopping and tilting forward and locking in place. She was almost completely upright.

  What was this? Some kind of makeshift TV studio?

  The black, lifeless eye of a camera stared at her. A decent make, a Canon, the model used for both taking pictures and video. The walls in the room had been soundproofed with professional-grade eggcrate-style foam insulation. Even the light setup looked pro: a key light, a side light, and a fill light with the little umbrella attached to it for a diffused glow.

  Having locked her gurney into place, the man came around in front of her. He was still wearing the white jumpsuit and large surgical mask, everything tucked in and airtight. Booties covered his shoes.

  She tried to speak. “Please …” She sounded drunk. Benumbed. Pweesh.

  He showed her his back as he worked on something beyond the camera. A moment later he approached her with a small cord in his hands and she shrieked and tensed against her restraints.

  “Relax,” he said.

  He held a miniature microphone, one she knew from experience was called a lavaliere. He clipped it to one of the straps, the one just above her breasts. Then he walked back to the camera and stuck his eye in the viewfinder. After making some adjustments, he put on the attached headphones and said, “Say something.”

  “Please …” Getting better now.

  “Say ‘test, test-one-two,’ or something like that. Do it.”

  “Please …”

  “Do it or I’ll kill you right now.”

  “Test. Tesh-ting one-two.”

  His eyes narrowed and shined, as if with the slightest smile. He removed the headphones and hung them from the camera. He walked behind the lights and then returned holding an easel. Finally he placed a pad on the easel, and she began to read to herself what was written there, suddenly vibrant with hope.

  She might get out of this yet. Oh, if she just did what she was told, he might let her live. Maybe Eva Diaz hadn’t complied. Maybe that was what had happened to her. But she would comply. She would do whatever it took to get back to them.

  Joseph, my baby boy …

  Kyle, my darling daughter …

  As the man explained what he wanted her to do, she listened, and she nodded, and she wondered: What time was it? Ben had to be worried by now. Both kids were gone to summer camp – Kyle was in northern Westchester County, Joe up a little farther near Poughkeepsie – and she and Ben were enjoying the alone time. Well, she was taking advantage of the summer and putting in some extra hours at the job, but it was amazing to have the alone time with Ben. Summer camp only lasted two weeks for Kyle, four weeks for Joe – like a second honeymoon for Monica and Ben.

  He would’ve called the police by now, surely. They might already be out looking for her, especially since Eva Diaz was recent. All she had to do was hang on a little longer. Do what this nutcase was telling her to do, and have faith.

  Just have faith.

  You’ll be okay.

  Everything is going to work out.

  The red recording light came on.

  Chapter Two

  At first, Shannon thought it was her father waking her. The call of the rooster in the distance. On the farm, you’d get up by dawn. Here, she didn’t usually need to rise that early, and in fact, she relied on a windowless bedroom, or the relentless noise of New York City would keep her awake all hours.

  It wasn’t her father.

  She grabbed her phone off the nightstand and recognized the number. She cleared her throat and answered, “Shannon Ames.”

  “Special Agent Ames, need you to come in early this morning.”

  She sat up in the bed, swung her feet to the ground and toed into her slippers. “Yes, sir.”

  Mark Tyler, her boss, continued, “Get down here as soon as you can and I’ll bring you up to speed.”

  The office was the Brooklyn-Queens Resident Agency – a satellite office – for the FBI’s New York City division. She lived just two and a half miles west of it, in Rego Park. On normal days, she could walk to work. Today, she took the M train four stops to Union Turnpike and caught a few of the usual looks while on the subway. Living in New York for just shy of a year, at first she thought the looks she drew were because she was an outsider, and people could sense it. Then, about eight months ago, someone asked her for an autograph. Apparently she was a dead ringer for Emma Watson, the actress. Though didn’t she live in London?

  The FBI occupied the seventh and eighth floors of the 80-02 Union Turnpike in Kew Gardens. The building was also home to the Queens District Attorney’s Office, a fitness club, two law firms, a medical school called the Access Institute, and an orthopedic surgeon. On the eighth floor, she paused outside the double-door entrance for a laser to scan her face. Then she said her name, “Shannon Elizabeth Ames.” The lock disengaged with an audible thump.

  Mark Tyler was the supervisory agent in charge and saw her the moment she entered. He was walking fast – he always walked fast – and she had to double-time it to keep up. They went into his office and he closed the door. Another agent, Bufort, was already there.

  Tyler took his seat. Shannon knew he was a native New Yorker, born and raised in Manhattan. Just forty years old, Tyler was the kind of guy with a high metabolism who hardly had to exercise. He did so anyway, compulsively. He wore his dark hair fashionable – tight cropped on the sides – and his suits were expensive looking.

  Shannon sat in the available chair fronting Tyler’s desk. She said good morning to Bufort. Bufort was more relaxed. He was heavier and thicker than Tyler, blond surfer hair, mid-thirties, a
nd he sipped a Snapple green tea.

  Tyler took a breath, then spread his hands and spoke. “We’ve got a missing person, Monica Jean Forbes, aged forty-two, from Williamsburg. Her husband is a general contractor, called 911 at four twelve a.m. this morning. 911 polled the call and it went to NYPD 90th, right there in Williamsburg, and they’ve been looking into it.”

  Shannon waited, anticipating the catch; the FBI didn’t get involved in missing persons reports less than three hours old. Even for NYPD to have taken it on board before twenty-four hours raised questions.

  Tyler said, “Monica Forbes – you recognize the name?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  Tyler pushed a picture across the desk. Shannon picked it up – a headshot of a pretty woman who did, yes, look vaguely familiar.

  “She’s on one of these late morning news shows,” Tyler said. “You know, she co-hosts with a bunch of other women. They sit at a table.”

  “It’s called The Scene.” Bufort sipped his tea.

  “They cover entertainment,” Tyler said. “Among other things.”

  Shannon kept looking at Monica, her brown eyes, the Mona Lisa smile, and she understood. She pictured another pretty face, darker-skinned, from recent headlines. “Eva Diaz,” she said.

  Tyler nodded. “That’s right. So Forbes is a TV personality on Channel 7, currently missing. Diaz was with Channel 2, NBC who was abducted and found two weeks ago.”

  “In Maspeth,” Shannon recalled.

  “Correct. Found in Maspeth, but lived up in Ditmars-Steinway.”