by Ray Flynt
Emily stared over Paul’s shoulder. She gasped. Her eyes widened.
“It’s over, Emily.”
The voice startled Paul. He turned and saw a man wearing a black ski mask and pointing a gun.
Emily screamed.
The gunman had crept down the side aisle of the chapel and lurked in the shadows of the transept.
Paul stood and put himself between the gunman and Emily. “This is God’s house. Put that away.”
Behind him, he heard Emily’s ragged breaths and felt her clutch the back of his jacket.
Paul pleaded with the man, “We can help her and your baby.”
Paul saw two flashes from the muzzle, heard the shots reverberate in his beloved chapel and Emily scream again.
She must have slumped backward—no longer tugging on his coat. In those final moments, Paul raised his hand to his chest and felt the oozing warmth.
A talent is formed in stillness,
a character in the world’s torrent.
- Goethe
1
Ryan Caldwell raced past the gauntlet of signs promoting Trump, Cruz, Clinton, and Sanders as he entered Palmer Hall bound for The Lion’s Bugle office. With the election still more than eleven months away, he couldn’t understand the enthusiasm.
11:10 a.m. Crap. He hated to be late, but Old Man Haines had popped a ten-point quiz in American History class on which Ryan had scored nine points. The missed question deserved an argument with the professor since it represented an opinion, thus open to ambiguity. At best, Ryan hoped to have the question tossed giving him nine for nine. He lost.
He didn’t want to jeopardize his assignment on the college’s student newspaper by being late. Ryan relaxed when he saw the TV tuned to ESPN. Two commentators were already speculating about the competitors for Super Bowl 50.
If the editor, Claire, were there, CNN would be blaring.
Ryan put his helmet on the desk, slipped off his leather jacket and Steelers ski hat and hung them on a hook next to his cubicle. His fingers massaged the stubble on the back of his head.
“Good morning, Danny.”
“Hey, Ryan. How did you know I was here?”
“Your stinky cologne leaves a trail.” Ryan chuckled as he took his MacBook out of his backpack and placed it on the desk.
He knew the TV habits of his colleagues: Melissa and Darcie dueled between Fox News and MSNBC. Robin preferred HGTV; Padma the Food Network; and Danny, sports reporter, favored ESPN. A natural deduction.
It had taken him a month before he realized the TV choices were a charade. His colleagues sat at their desks listening to Spotify, Pandora, or whatever app delivered their favorite music. He’d been naïve to think that in a “newsroom” the reporters might actually be watching news.
For himself, Ryan always chose a cable music station and shifted between current hits and jazz depending on his mood. Music helped him think. His “beat” on the Bugle consisted of general campus news, which excluded sports, social events, and Greek activities. News from the nearby villages in Berks County was also fair game, as long as it connected to the college.
Ryan grabbed the mug from his desk and visited the coffeemaker. It sat beneath the wall-mounted TV, which could be viewed from both wings of the L-shaped office. As Ryan stirred powdered creamer into his cup, he spotted Danny’s shock of red hair showing above his cubicle wall. “What’re you working on, Danny?”
“Saturday night’s basketball game against Lehigh.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, we stunk.” Danny’s fingers breezed over the keyboard.
Ryan gulped his coffee and realized the creamer was French Vanilla. Ugh. He dumped it in the nearby sink and poured a fresh cup of coffee. Even black is better than French Vanilla.
The TV showed highlights of Monday night’s game between the Ravens and Browns. Will Hill’s dramatic game-winning touchdown after the Ravens blocked the Browns’ field goal looked even more impressive in 50-inch HD than it had on the small screen in his apartment.
“Hey, Danny, you’re a history major, right?”
“Yup.”
“Who do you think was the most consequential leader in the French and Indian Wars?”
Danny never missed a keystroke as he answered, “William Pitt.”
Shit. “That’s what Haines said.”
Danny turned and looked at him. “Pop quiz?”
Ryan nodded.
“He’s famous for those; he knows his stuff.”
“I guess,” Ryan muttered, still pissed about missing a question open to differing interpretations. George Washington qualifies as consequential too, right?
“Danny, while you’re busy taking in all those tight ends and the power forwards in their shorts, I’d be happy to fill in for you at women’s soccer.”
“No way. I’m bi and enjoy my front row seat at the soccer field.”
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot you’re a switch-hitter.” He jabbed Danny in the arm, then added, “Unlike Claire.”
“What’s unlike me?” Claire growled as she strolled through the office door.
Ryan thought fast. “Your perfume smells a lot better than that overpowering shit Danny wears.” He winked at Danny, eliciting a scowl.
Claire frowned as she aimed the remote at the TV. “You’re blocking the signal.” She waved for Ryan to get out of the way.
CNN materialized on the screen. Claire turned up the volume.
Ryan returned to his desk opposite Claire’s. He tore a page from the daily calendar revealing Tuesday, December 1st, and the day’s quote from Mark Twain: “Man is the only animal that blushes, or needs to.”
Pointing at Claire’s spiked hair he said, “The blonde is almost grown out.”
She rolled her eyes. “The things we do for love.”
A freshman journalism major, Ryan felt lucky to have landed a spot on the newspaper staff. He could put up with knowing the quirky details of Claire’s love life. She had tougher expectations than he’d experienced from a drill sergeant at Fort Benning, and so far, he’d learned more from Claire about how to be a reporter than in Dr. Newman’s Journalism 101.
Claire sat at her desk and switched on the emergency radio scanner. It crackled with a police dispatch to a burglary in nearby Laureldale.
“What are you working on, Oldliv?” Claire asked.
Ryan laughed to himself. Claire had dubbed him the oldest living freshman, which she shortened to Oldliv. Those not in on the joke often mistook her pronunciation as Olaf. At twenty-six, he was hardly the oldest frosh, but five years in the Army and the bald spot creeping its way toward the back of his head distinguished him from his eighteen-year-old classmates.
“Student government’s considering a hike in our activity fee next year. The administration is talking about a shift from a two-semester academic year to a trimester system.”
Claire cocked an eyebrow. “I hope that never happens, but I guess I’ll be out of here before then. You keeping up with the campus police?”
“I see Donna in the security office every week.”
Claire scowled. “I meant monitoring crime reports, not trying to get in her pants.”
Ryan felt his face flush and hoped it didn’t show. Claire had a way of staring at him like she could read his thoughts. He’d asked Donna to a movie a week earlier and gotten a polite, “I already have plans.” He couldn’t figure out whether Donna had brushed him off or if she warranted a second try.
Claire tugged at the round gauge in her left earlobe. “See if you can find an edgier story than trimesters or activity fees.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Other college papers have run stories complaining about underreporting of date rape. Do we have such a problem here at Brandell?”
“I’ll check with Donna.”
Claire flashed another sure-you-will look. “You could also talk to the State Police.”
“Will do.”
On his laptop, Ryan pulled up a story h
e’d begun about possible trimesters. If implemented, winter session would span the Christmas/New Year’s holiday. Under the current system, finals were over when students headed home to enjoy their break. With the holidays approaching, he felt it was an angle everyone would want to know about.
Claire, the taskmaster, added, “I need six or seven hundred words from you by tomorrow’s deadline.”
“You’ll have them.”
Why is she riding me more than usual about this week’s writing assignment?
The Bugle published every week, and Wednesday evening spelled crunch time, with all staff on deck. A print shop in Reading produced the sixteen-page tabloid for delivery to dorms, offices, and pick-up boxes early Friday morning.
Ryan’s ears perked up when he heard the dispatcher on the radio call for an ambulance to be sent to One Brandell Circle.
He and Claire swapped glances.
“That’s Nicholson’s residence,” she remarked.
Ryan had already stowed his laptop and reached for his coat when the dispatcher added, “Male, 71, unconscious.”
“I’m on it.” Ryan tugged the knit Steelers cap on his head.
His hand was ready to turn the doorknob when Claire called out, “Caldwell.”
Crap, she never calls me that.
“For future reference, I don’t wear perfume.”
2
Ryan sprinted out of Palmer Hall, leaped down a short flight of steps, and skated across an icy patch of sidewalk before his shoes regained traction. He’d woken that morning to a dusting of snow, which the sun had mostly melted from the sidewalks but still clung to the grass.
Ryan decided to leave his Suzuki parked outside the building.
One Brandell Circle stood less than two blocks away. He’d make better time on foot. After all, he’d lettered in track in high school, with 500 meters his specialty.
As he rounded Bethel Hall, he paused to exhale—his breath rising ahead of him as he dashed into the cold temperatures. The driveway curved in front of the stone house, which served as the official residence for Brandell College’s president.
Dating from 1873, the old farmhouse had been donated as part of an eighty-acre gift to the Lutheran Church by the Brandell family in 1947.
A lone car sat in the drive. The ambulance hadn’t yet arrived.
Ryan had trained as a paramedic in his last year in the Army. He picked up the pace thinking he might be able to help.
He rang the doorbell, surprised when Neil Cook, the academic dean, answered.
“Hi, Dr. Cook, I’m Ryan Caldwell, a student here. I heard there’s a medical emergency. I know CPR and would be happy to help.”
“The ambulance is on its way, son. I’m sure they can handle things.” Cook started to close the door.
Ryan heard a woman’s voice pleading, “Al’s stopped breathing. Maybe he could help.”
Ryan swept past Dr. Cook.
Dr. Nicholson lay sprawled on the foyer’s marble floor. Kneeling beside him, Mrs. Nicholson loosened his collar and moaned softly.
Ryan dropped his backpack and knelt next to Albert Nicholson. The college president’s mouth gaped and his skin appeared cyanotic.
Ryan listened for breathing. Nothing. He checked the carotid artery for a pulse. Still nothing.
Damn.
A siren wailed in the distance.
Hurry.
“They’re coming,” Dr. Cook announced, then headed back to the front door to admit the EMTs.
Ryan tilted Nicholson’s chin back to open the airway and began chest compressions. He used the palm of his right hand, interlacing the fingers of his left on top. He pressed firmly against the bottom third of the sternum. His pace was faster than the recommended one hundred beats a minute to start, and it took half a minute to develop a good rhythm.
Nicholson was a barrel-chested man, and his breastbone didn’t give the way the rubber dummies had during his CPR training, but Ryan persisted.
Mrs. Nicholson whimpered. Ryan remembered that feeling of helplessness when one of his buddies had been wounded in Afghanistan.
Dr. Cook held the front door for the arrival of the ambulance. A chill rushed through the room. Even with his coat on, Ryan felt the cold air, which wasn’t doing Nicholson any favors.
“Close the door till they get here,” Ryan ordered.
The dean complied.
The warbling siren sounded closer.
Ryan kept up the compressions and turned to Mrs. Nicholson. “Unbutton his shirt the rest of the way.”
He knew the ambulance crew would use a defibrillator, and exposing his chest would save valuable seconds.
The siren abruptly stopped. Ryan heard the ambulance’s engine and the doors opening.
Cook glanced in Ryan’s direction before reopening the door and shouting, “In here.”
On an ordinary day, Dr. Cook made his academic world hum with the snap of his fingers. He hadn’t even asked Ryan if he could be of any assistance and stood powerlessly as events unfolded.
Two EMTs, a man and a woman, rushed into the foyer with a gurney and equipment bag and closed the door behind them. The woman approached Mrs. Nicholson and began asking about medications her husband took and allergies while the man knelt on the opposite side of Nicholson from Ryan. His nametag identified him as Scott Hadley while a patch on his shirt labeled him as a paramedic.
“How long have you been doing compressions?” Scott asked.
“Three or four minutes. I’m Ryan.”
Scott, who looked like a man in his forties, felt Nicholson’s carotid artery. “Keep pushing, Ryan, while I get the AED.”
As Scott unpacked the portable defibrillator, Ryan overheard Mrs. Nicholson tell of her husband’s collapse about twenty minutes earlier. “He had a breakfast meeting with a couple of the trustees,” she explained, “but returned home because he wasn’t feeling well. I offered to make him tea, but he said, ‘No.’ He hung his coat in the closet and took off his tie. I saw him press his hand to his chest. The next thing I knew it looked like he sat down with no chair under him. He may have hit his head.”
Scott affixed the self-sticking pads to Nicholson’s chest and side, then connected the wires to the defibrillator. He switched on the device. “Stand clear,” an electronic voice announced.
Ryan slid out of the way on the shiny floor.
Nicholson’s body spasmed when the defibrillator sent its first wave of current.
Once more, Scott listened to Nicholson for a pulse on the carotid artery.
“Faint,” Scott muttered. He took over compression duty and the AED alerted him when there were thirty seconds until the next jolt. “Judy, get ready to transport.”
Judy lowered the gurney to the floor.
The AED administered another shock. Scott checked for a pulse.
Nicholson’s pallor didn’t look any better. Neil Cook bit his lip and fidgeted with his wedding ring.
Scott gestured to Judy, “Let’s get him on the gurney. Keep the pads on. Might need them on the way.”
Ryan marveled at the way the two of them muscled Nicholson from the floor to the gurney.
Mrs. Nicholson hovered close to touch her husband’s cheek.
“We’ll take him to Reading Hospital, ma’am,” Judy said. “You can ride with us.”
Mrs. Nicholson nodded. “Will he be okay?”
“If he is, you can thank Ryan. He may have saved your husband’s life.
AUTHOR’S BIO
Ray Flynt authors two series: Brad Frame mysteries and one featuring journalist Ryan Caldwell. He’s also written a political suspense, KISSES OF AN ENEMY. A native of Pennsylvania, Ray wrote and performs a one-man play based on the life of Ben Franklin. Ray is a member of Mystery Writers of America and active with their Florida Chapter. He is a life member of the Florida Writers Association. Ray retired from a diverse career in criminal justice, education, the arts, and human services. More information is available at www.rayflynt.com.
BRAD F
RAME MYSTERY SERIES
#1 – UNFORGIVING SHADOWS
#2 – TRANSPLANTED DEATH
#3 – BLOOD PORN
#4 – LADY ON THE EDGE
#5 – FINAL JUROR
#6 – EMBALMED
#7 – YARD GOAT
#8 – FATAL GAMBIT
#9 – CODE ROJO
_____
KISSES OF AN ENEMY (Political Suspense)
_____
RYAN CALDWELL NOVELS
#1 – COLD OATH
#2 – ANCHOR ON MY SOUL
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author acknowledges fellow writers for their valuable edits, critiques, and suggestions: David Bishop, Carrie Murgittroyd, James Newman, Mark Pryor, and William Speir.
I am grateful to Jodi Carnevale, Charles Corritore, Sue Dirham, Marjie Styer Klein, Robert Martin, and David Matthews for offering to read and comment on the manuscript. My thanks to Nancy Heitman for her line editing talents.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Any errors or omissions are solely the responsibility of the author.
UNFORGIVING SHADOWS – A Brad Frame Mystery #1
Brad Frame is invited to the execution by lethal injection of Frank Wilkie, one of two men responsible for the death of his mother and sister. Afterward the prison chaplain thrusts the condemned man’s Bible into his hands. Within hours another man is anxious to get his hands on Wilkie’s Bible and Brad suspects the motivation could involve the still missing ransom money from the kidnapping. Brad’s world is once again turned upside down as he and Sharon unravel an eleven-year-old mystery.
TRANSPLANTED DEATH – A Brad Frame Mystery #2
A cold-blooded killer is murdering transplant patients at Philadelphia’s Strickland Memorial Hospital while the biggest snow storm of the century strands medical personnel and strains their ability to deal with the crisis. Philadelphia private detective Brad Frame and his assistant Sharon Porter lock horns with the hospital’s security chief while the administrator seems more interested in positive PR than the safety of her patients.