“Your idea cost Jonny his life. My mother hers, too, really.”
Hank raised his head, his mouth twisted in an attempt to keep the sobs inside. “I didn’t know about the other kids.”
Hank closed his eyes, misery etched deep around his eyes and mouth. “I figured that out later when that boy was killed fifty miles from your grandmother’s place that weekend I went to get her. Hunter followed me there. He’s been following me for years. That’s why I didn’t come to see you or my grandsons.”
Danielle cleared her throat. She waited until he opened his bloodshot eyes and met her gaze to speak. “You were culpable. You might not have known then what he’d brought about, but even in asking for a child to be kidnapped . . .”
Hank dipped his head. “Accessory to a crime,” he said. “That’s what it’s called.”
Danielle breathed in deep, exhaled. “I don’t know what to say. What to wish for. Except . . . except that I know my son wouldn’t have been in that truck tonight if you’d been brave enough to step forward then.”
Hank didn’t respond. Tears dripped from the end of his nose and splashed onto the blanket.
Danielle didn’t look back before she walked out.
42
Arlen
The next morning blazed hot and fine—the cloud cover burned off before seven. Arlen hadn’t slept much but he felt peaceful as he stood near Jonathan’s grave. He took a knee and placed his hand over Nancy’s marker, right next to Jonathan’s. Hers was smaller, a cremation plot, and the dirt still freshly-turned and baking slowly in the rising Texas heat.
“We finally got him, Nancy. I’m so sorry it took us so long. I hope you’re resting easy now.”
Arlen stood with a grunt. These damn pounds made upping and downing a right pain. Irene had been nudging him, but Arlen made the decision there, knowing he’d keep it: Part of retirement meant getting into shape. Or at least out of such bad shape.
Trevor walked up to the grave, carrying flowers and a battered, yellowing Yankees’ pennant.
“I can’t believe this is over,” Trevor said.
“Mostly. Not yet, though.” Arlen paused. “The trial might well prove sensational.”
“Probably will,” Trevor added. “I called my wife last night—spilled this all on her. We’ve been separated.” Trevor’s smile was self-deprecating. “I never told her about Jonny. Never shared that with Sophie, and she was hurt and angry I hadn’t wanted want kids. She understands now, at least a little. Think she might even forgive me. I . . . I need her to. For my part in this.”
Arlen nodded. He rocked back on his heels as he shoved his hands into his pockets. Marking the date down with Irene last night proved cathartic for him, too. Thirty years today—Jonathan Foster’s death took thirty years to find justice.
But they’d done it.
And in a month, Arlen would sit on the beach and be able to breathe calmly as he stared over the waves. He’d know, deep in his bones, that one fewer criminal ran free. One he’d wanted to catch for most of his career was locked up and would stay that way—at least that’s what the DA in Frisco said on the conference call with Detective Morales this morning.
“I’m going to stay at the foundation,” Trevor said.
“Might be rough for a time.”
Trevor dipped his head. “Might be. But the work, saving kids like Jonny or Reid . . . any of them . . . it’s good work.”
If they could get past Hank Foster’s tainted decision-making and nasty past, sure. But Arlen didn’t voice those concerns. Trevor was a grown man and deserved the opportunity to make his decisions as such.
“Nancy told me to talk to you,” Arlen said instead. “I should have listened.”
“I should have realized even the tiniest detail might prove pivotal,” Trevor responded. “I work in law. I know this.”
They stood quietly beside Jonathan Foster’s grave.
A woman opened the door to her white Lexus, her dark hair glinting in the bright sunlight.
“That’s Sophie. I’m going to go,” Trevor said.
Arlen nodded. “I’ll keep you posted on Hank’s trial. Leonard’s, too.”
Trevor shook his head. He eased the negation by clapping Arlen on the back. “Focus on your retirement. This”—Trevor spread his arms to encompass the cemetery—“this is all in the past.”
He turned on his heel and walked toward his wife. Arlen wondered idly if they’d work through their issues.
He turned back toward his car, moseying down the path.
Epilogue
Danielle
Garrett offered to come with Danielle, and she wondered if she should have said no. She touched his cheek, tenderly, as she spoke.
“This is my messed up family. I want you there because you’ve kept me going through all this, but I feel like I need to focus on us.”
He searched her eyes. “Do you know what us means yet? They’ve always been there—the ghost of Jonathan, your mother, hell, even your father, though we didn’t know the why.”
She took a shaky breath “I don’t. Not really. Except to say . . . this is over. Whatever comes next, Jonathan’s death, his justice is complete. Reid and Kevin are safe.”
Garrett’s eyes crinkled, though the darkness from Reid’s abduction remained. Danielle understood. They would all need time to process what had happened.
“They’re enjoying being spoiled by my folks,” Garrett said. “I’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”
“Thank you, Garrett. For . . . just thank you.”
He nodded before he leaned in and touched his lips to hers, gently. Garrett was almost always subtle, easy, loving.
They drove to the cemetery, Danielle too nervous to speak. Garrett steered the car through the gates tipped with white stone angels, the grounds were dotted with flowers and flags, zigzagged with granite monuments and low markers. All the while, she thought about Kevin and Reid.
Hardesty and Trevor stood by Jonathan’s grave. Danielle sat in the car, unsure if she should give them privacy.
Trevor turned onto the path and walked toward a beautiful brunette in casual linen slacks and a turquoise silk blouse. She stepped away from the car, and Trevor pulled her into his arms. She wrapped her arms tight around him as his shoulders shook.
A small smile fluttering across Danielle’s lips. “She’s pretty.”
“Not as pretty as you,” Garrett said, clasping her hand.
Even if AMEAC imploded, if it never moved past the black mark of its founder’s part in his own son’s abduction, Trevor would be okay. He’d found the justice he needed—and the ability to lay his friend to rest at last.
Hardesty wandered down another path and went to his sedan. He saluted Danielle and Garrett but didn’t come over, for which Danielle was thankful. She needed to do this with just Garrett.
She needed to tell her big brother goodbye.
Eventually, Danielle and Garrett exited the car. They walked hand-in-hand to the grave markers.
The soft breeze fluttered a strand of hair across Danielle’s cheek, reminding her that she was indeed alive. She took a deep breath of the spring air, lilies and roses, fresh cut grass. A little rain.
Renewal. Just maybe.
She could hear the traffic, the buzzing grind of a lawn tractor. She glanced back down at the two graves huddled together. A family, but not hers.
“My name is Danielle Foster Patterson.” She closed her eyes as she squeezed Garrett’s fingers. He returned the gesture. “No. I’m Danielle Patterson.”
The wind picked up, riffling the low grass at each of the graves, some of the headstones, like her brother’s, donned little plastic flags sprinkled among the plastic bouquets. She brought wildflowers to add to both her mother’s flat grave marker and her brother’s white marble stone. She tucked her hair back behind her ear.
“I didn’t know you, neither of you,” she whispered as she stood there, her mother on one side, her brother on the other. She laid the flowers fir
st on Nancy’s marker, then on Jonathan’s headstone, not thinking, just acting on instinct. She placed her hands there for a moment before she stood.
“I’m so sorry this happened. I’m so thankful we finally ended the pain.”
With the first truly deep, restorative breath she’d taken since she was a child, Danielle nodded to Garrett. Together, they turned and walked away.
The End
If you enjoyed this novel, please consider J. J. Cagney’s Reverend Cici Gurule Mystery series at J. J.’s website: www.jjcagney.com
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J. J. Cagney is the mystery/thriller pen name of USA Today bestselling author Alexa Padgett. Her debut mystery, A Pilgrimage of Death, was named to Kirkus Reviews' 100 Best Books of 2018 and Goodreads Best Mysteries of 2010s.
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Steve Gannon: Kane Blood Moon
Kane Blood Moon
Steve Gannon
Author’s Rating:
Language: ** Sexuality: ** Violence: **
For your convenience each book in this collection has been rated by the author for language, sexuality and violence, so that you as a reader can make an informed choice.
Our collection includes books that span the intensity range.
Language Intensity:
* - No or mild profanity, if any
** - Stronger profanity, with up to 5 uses of the f-word
*** - Strong language
Sexuality Intensity:
* - Sexual reference or no sexuality
** - Sexual reference which might include some details.
*** - Intense, descriptive sexual scenes
Violence Intensity
* - Violence, but no gory details.
** - Mild violence, fairly detailed with some blood
*** - Detailed violence
KANE
Blood Moon
All Rights Reserved
Copyright 2018 by Steve Gannon
Published by Steve Gannon
stevegannonauthor.com
KANE: Blood Moon is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gannon, Steve.
Kane: Blood Moon / Steve Gannon.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-0-9979152-5-9
Created with Vellum
Blurb
"From Amazon bestselling author Steve Gannon, thrillers that will keep you up all night . . . but lock your doors and windows first!"
A serial kidnapper.
A maverick LAPD police detective.
In Kane: Blood Moon, Detective Daniel Kane embarks on the most chilling case of his career. Another woman is missing, and time is running out ...
What Readers Are Saying About Steve Gannon:
"Steve Gannon is right up there with DeMille, Child, Baldacci, and Connelly's Bosch. Settle in by the fire and enjoy." ~ Jessie N. Bridges
"I savored every word, my emotions soaring and plummeting in the hands of this talented author." ~ Muddy Rose Reviews
"Definitely one of my favorite authors over the past few years. Superb storyteller and writer." ~ BrentW
"I read all the time - love Vince Flynn, Russell Blake, Robert Crais among the many incredible authors. Steve is right in there now that I'm reading the Kane series - please keep them coming." ~ Nan L. Thompson
"Stunned! Moved me more than words can say." ~ Daniel
"The Best! Steve Gannon again thrills, and just as with all his work, you won't be able to put this one down. So... Feed the kids, tell the husband or wife you're busy, and read, read, read!" ~ Debra Vogel
Magpie
One for sorrow,
Two for mirth
Three for a funeral,
Four for birth
Five for heaven
Six for hell
Seven for the devil, his own self
Michael Aislabie Denham’s Proverbs and Popular Sayings of the Seasons, 1846
Prologue
Geology Seminar
She was stunning.
Watching her hurrying to class, he felt a rush of anticipation. He fought against it. For the next few hours he needed to maintain complete and absolute control.
There would be time enough later for what was to come.
Careful not to follow too closely, he kept her just in view, watching as she made her way through the Murphy Sculpture Garden. Then, pretending to be talking on his cellphone, he trailed her past the Law School building farther south. Glancing briefly at the ornate brick structure as he passed, he smiled to himself, recalling having presented several law lectures there years back.
A second-year graduate student, she was currently enrolled in UCLA’s Earth, Planetary, and Space Sciences Department. With her parents picking up the tab, she was working on a Master of Science degree in geology. On two previous occasions he had followed her to her Friday night geology seminar.
This evening would be the last.
From weeks of social media research, he knew much about her. He knew she was twenty-three years old, the daughter of a police captain, and that she had a younger sister who was almost as beautiful as she. He knew she lived off-campus in an apartment on Gayley Avenue, and that she was taking a six-week summer geology course to complete several missing units. He also knew that upon completion of her studies, she planned to work as a petroleum geologist—knocking down a respectable six-figure salary.
More to the point, he knew where she parked her car, a late-model Toyota 4Runner. He had positioned his van adjacent to it in the parking structure.
As she passed the Schoenberg Music Building, he increased his pace. She was nearing her destination, and he wanted to make certain she was safely ensconced in her classroom before returning to his van.
Minutes later, as her tall, slim figure disappeared through the geology building doors, he smiled again, thinking of the next time they would meet.
Everything was ready.
There was nothing to do now but wait.
1
Taken
Ella Snead hated being late.
As she rushed back to her car—a backpack crammed with notes and textbooks slung over one shoulder—she glanced at her watch, mentally cursing whoever had barred Parking Structure 2 to graduate student use. Although her hard-won UCLA parking pass still granted access to Parking Structures 3, 4, and 7, they were a half-mile farther from the geology building than Lot 2. Worse, Lots 4 and 7 were two-level buildings and usually always full—especially on nights when an event like Homecoming, Bruin Family Weekend, or a basketball game was scheduled.
Which left Parking Structure 3. Sure, Lot 3 was huge, but it was also all the way up on Hilgard and Sunset—a mile farther from her geology classrooms. Ella glanced again at her watch. Her seminar had run
late, and she was supposed to meet friends for dinner in Santa Monica. There was no way she was going to make it on time.
As she passed Parking Structure 2, she sighed in frustration, noting that several floors of the seven-level building appeared vacant. “It isn’t fair,” she said aloud, increasing her pace.
For one, Ella told herself, UCLA was an R1 institution—meaning that a significant portion of university funding came from research grants. And graduate students, most of whom worked later hours than their faculty contemporaries, were the nonpaid workhorses who brought in much of that money. Bottom line, graduate students shouldn’t have to trudge all the way across campus just to get to their cars . . . especially late at night.
Twenty minutes later, upon reaching Lot 3, Ella had nearly decided to pen a scathing letter of complaint—assuming she could determine where to send it. If so, maybe she could get one of her law-school friends to help. She knew several whom the recent Lot 2 change had inconvenienced, although to be accurate, law students had a considerably shorter journey to Lot 3 than did she.
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