Ramblings of a Mad Southern Woman
Official website of author Ashley Fontainne
Tuesday, September 12, 2023
Upcoming release of Operation S&D
Monday, December 5, 2022
New release with NYT Bestselling author, Janelle Taylor!
Ready for a suspenseful thriller set in 1983 with a CIA agent?
Great! Then Operation DFC is for you.
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CHAPTER 1
Prepping - Bangkok, Thailand – June 1,
1983 – 2325 Local Time
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WEAT COATS EVERY INCH of my body,
courtesy of the oppressive heat and humidity. My shorts and thin t-shirt cling
to me like a second skin while unlocking the door of the small hotel room. I
immediately frown—the ancient unit is down for the count. Again. Had I made the
travel arrangements, this farce of a hotel would not have been among the realm
of possibilities for a place to rest my head. Chuckling, I step inside the
dreary space, and it crosses my mind that perhaps another reason I had been
recruited is because I grew up in southern Arkansas and the Agency assumed I
would acclimate to the sweltering heat in Southeast Asia easier than men born
above the Mason-Dixon line.
Birth
location does not matter—hot, humid air sucks the life out of you even if you
grew up around it.
A
roach the size of my palm skitters across my shoe precisely at the same time a
disgusting mixture of mold, stale body odor, human excrement, and
God-knows-what-else assaults me. No amount of training can properly prepare a
person for the wretched odors wafting from every crevice of this overcrowded
city full of poverty, disease, and human squalor.
Nothing
except being held captive in a similar environment.
The
putrid aromas bring back unwanted, horrendous memories of my previous
experiences in Asia. This is the first time I’ve been back since 1973. The
deep, ugly scar on my right arm throbs for some odd reason. I force the
memories to remain inside the locked vault of my mind where I’ve trapped them
for a decade. Part of me despises being here, yet the urge to complete the
mission and save my brothers wins out.
Heavy
footsteps and the squeaky voice of a young girl speaking in her native tongue
cause me to poke my head out and glance out the door. Fury burns through my
chest while eyeing a red-headed, freckle-faced Caucasian man, obviously fond of
fast food and fearful of the gym, strutting down the hallway. A young Asian
girl, tottering in heels she should not know how to walk in, is next to him.
The oaf senses my presence, glances over, winks while opening the door, and the
young girl slips inside. He joyfully follows.
It
takes all my intestinal fortitude to keep from following them and beating the
scumbag to death with my bare hands.
She’s
just a child.
The
urge to become justice for the wayward waif and rescue her from despair is
strong, but I cannot succumb to temptation. Too much is at stake for my
brothers to risk blowing my cover. Besides, the girl probably isn’t here on her
own free will, and if I kill the lecherous heathen who paid for her services,
her pimp will just send her to the next paying client. The contribution of
freeing one girl from a horrific evening of sexual abuse will be about as
fruitful as scooping out handfuls of sand, hoping to drain the ocean.
Pausing
for a split second while staring at the closed door, I listen to the sound of
his voice, noting the dialect—south Texas—no doubt. I imprint the tone and
cadence in my mind for use later.
One
handful of sand is one handful, right? It will be quite easy to dispose of a
body in this disgusting city…wait, no…not now. Damn, it’s only my first night
in Bangkok and I’m already plotting murder. I make a mental note to research
ol’ fat boy’s information later from the front desk when the clerk is otherwise
engaged. Once I know exactly what city in Texas the red-headed slimeball lives,
I will pay him a visit and castrate him like a feral dog.
What
I do on my own time is my business.
A
wicked smirk crosses my face while scanning the tiny space advertised as a
room. Nothing is amiss. All the sly traps I set to indicate someone came
snooping around while I was gone are intact. Satisfied I’m alone and nobody has
been inside, I lock the door behind me before setting the paper sack down on
the lone chair. After removing the wallet carrying my identity and passport, I
secure it inside the modified suitcase, one complete with a hidden compartment
inside the bowels, before retrieving the old set of flip-flops I’ve carried
with me for years.
Unsatisfied
the credentials are safe when not within arms-reach, I strip down, slide on the
flip-flops, and then pick up the suitcase and take four strides to the area in
the corner before setting it down inches away.
When
I checked in earlier, the desk clerk touted the accommodations as upgraded to
include a private bathroom.
What
a colossal joke.
There
is a toilet, sink, and a showerhead with knobs protruding directly from the
wall, but the area is void of any sort of door or curtain. Eating, sleeping,
and attending to bathroom business are all done in the open, and certainly not
for those who are shy or easily embarrassed. Of course, I am neither of those
things, so I remain unfazed by the situation because I’ve been in places that
make this shithole look like a palace.
Turning
the knob for cold water, the pipes rumble and groan behind the paper-thin walls
separating rooms before tepid liquid squirts out. Oh well, it is water, and
between it and the Irish Spring soap I packed, the stench of sex and poverty
from my brief excursion through Patpong will be removed from my pores. Plus,
noisy pipes will hopefully cover any sounds from the room across the hallway
that might make me rethink waiting to pay ol’ fat boy a visit when back
on American soil and attack now.
Too
bad the combination of soap and water won’t work on the odors trapped inside my
nasal cavity. It irritates the fire out of me that the operative I met earlier
set our meeting location smack dab in the middle of the red-light district. He
falsely assumed I was like every other American male and wanted to
partake in all the debauchery Bangkok is known for throughout the globe.
Pass.
My
trusty soldier will remain free of STDs. No way will I risk potentially
infecting Cathy with some disgusting venereal disease simply because I let my
libido take control of rational thought. No way. I’m a patient man, one fully
aware of the beautiful prize awaiting me back in North Carolina, and when I set
my mind on something, there is no changing it.
Bile
rises in the back of my throat while recalling the meeting. The operative,
“Oscar,” was a slender, dark-haired Asian man with beady eyes and body odor so
strong my eyes nearly watered while he handed me the bag with the items
required to complete the clandestine mission. Once the exchange happened, Oscar
offered to pay for me to stay and watch a ping-pong show.
Again,
pass.
I
heard fellow soldiers talk about the filthy, degrading shows in Bangkok when
they’d come back from R&R during my time in ’Nam years ago. Hearing about
it was bad enough—I have no desire to see it.
The
knowing smile on Oscar’s face and his lecherous gaze eyeballing girls, ones who
should be home playing with Barbies rather than performing sexually explicit
acts on stage in front of foul pedophiles, made me want to slam my fist into
his mouth so hard he’d shit teeth for days. I politely refused, feigning an
upset stomach from eating too much greasy noodles from a street vendor, and
promptly followed the statement with some well-acted retching.
While
rinsing my face, a deep sigh escapes my throat. I’m just a small pawn in a
worldwide game, not the one calling the shots, setting meeting logistics, or
even fully aware of all the intricacies of the mission known as Operation DFC.
My part is substantial since I am the one delivering the banking credentials, yet
I am in the dark on several things. I do not know the location of the POWs,
what branch of military will transport them to safety, or how they will get
home.
Most
of my superiors still consider me wet behind the ears because I’ve been with
the CIA for twenty-four months. I wholeheartedly disagree with their
assessment. The proper time is six years because I count the previous
forty-eight months spent crafting my cover story and the rigorous, sometimes
brutal, training I’ve endured. However, this is my first major operation—to
save POWs/MIAs—and the reason I joined the CIA.
Until
now, Dave Carter, whose
ridiculous code name, Jaguar, I refuse to address him by, gave me assignments a novice spy could
handle with ease, mainly courier tasks, because I possess a phenomenal memory.
I never record things that the wrong person or side could discover. I stash all
important intel inside my memory banks so only I can access them.
When
Dave informed me of this assignment, he said it would either make me or break
me. This was my big chance to prove myself worthy of being plucked from the
bowels of southern Arkansas to join this elite group. If successful, I would
lead future rescue missions—unless I am caught and blab.
I
had laughed in his smug face. “Nothing and nobody can make me talk. Period. End
of story.”
Dave
had given me an odd smirk. “So, you’re willing to die?”
In
a low, rumbling baritone, I’d answered, “Absolutely.”
What
I didn’t say was that I’d die for love, whether it be for all the broken
POWs/MIAs awaiting rescue, my country, my girl, my best friend, or my honor.
Dave had not earned my respect and, therefore, did not deserve to hear my
thoughts on personal matters.
Brought
back to the present after a final rinse, I turn off the water. Time to drip-dry
rather than risk using a towel supplied by the hotel, which might be full of
Third World microscopic organisms I prefer not to think about. I’ve already
experienced plenty of nastiness in Asia and am fully aware of the risks and how
to steer clear of them.
Glancing
down at the flip-flops, I chuckle to myself while padding over to the window. I
open it, hoping for a cool breeze. Instead, a burst of hot air and the stench
of urban decay greet me. No matter. Air is air, and I prefer suffering through
smelling the rankness rather than risking exposure to what potential gunk lies
in wait on the towel.
Captivity
in Asia turned me into a neurotic clean freak.
Several
glossy travel brochures rest, unopened, on an old dresser made from mahogany. I
give them a quick scan, scowling at the deceptive descriptions.
“Welcome
to the glorious capital of Thailand—Krung Thep. The City of Gods, the Great
City, the Residence of the Emerald Buddha, the Impregnable City of Ayutthaya of
God Indra, the Grand Capital of the World Endowed with Nine Precious Gems, the
Happy City Abounding in Enormous Royal Palaces Which Resemble the Heavenly
Abode Wherein Dwell the Reincarnated Gods, a City Given by Indra and Built by
Vishnakarm. The City of Angels opens her arms, embraces you, and urges you to
enjoy her magnificence.”
City
of Angels, my ass. How can a place that touts itself so highly be immersed in
such evil?
My
keen gaze skims the nighttime skyline of Bangkok. Sparkly, multi-colored lights
beckon visitors like a siren’s call, yet they do not reveal the evil lurking in
the shadows.
Turning
my body toward the mirror bolted on the wall to the right, I glance quickly
past the old scars on my chest, arms, and legs. Years of arduous workouts to
regain muscle mass, coupled with healthy eating habits and a myriad of daily
multivitamins, revived my once emaciated frame and helped to keep the dark
memories of my previous life at bay.
Cathy
is fond of saying I’m well-built yet not an over-the-top body builder type,
though sometimes she worries that’s where I’m headed—gym rat. I laugh every
time she says this, countering I look every bit the part of a lean, powerful
man who works outside with his hands in the dirt under the scorching sun.
The
overhead light catches a few flecks of silver interspersed between the black
hair at my temples. I notice a few new wrinkles around the eyes and forehead.
Cathy thinks I look distinguished and that the grays and lines have helped
soften the angular edges of my chin, nose, and cheeks.
I
see what she means, but there are significant portions of my previous life she
is not aware of, including the fact that enduring excruciating pain changed my
eye color from vibrant blue to a strange, dull shade of hazel. She does not
know I’m a former POW or my real name, only that I served in the Army, and
attended college with her cousin. After the first time we were intimate years
ago and she saw the scars, I told her a partial truth: They were from my
abusive father, and discussing my childhood was off limits.
I’ll
never forget her response, spoken in her sweet North Carolina drawl while her
delicate fingers caressed my cheek: “Heartache and abuse come in many forms,
and sometimes, the hardest battles are fought inside the home. I’m sorry, babe,
that you endured such a rough upbringing, but that’s your past, not your
future.”
Thinking
about Cathy makes me smile. She’s kind, nurturing, patient, and flourishes as a
nurse. The woman’s heart is pure, and she loves me. Damaged, broken me. One
day, perhaps after I retire, I’ll break down and tell her all the things I’ve
hidden for years.
She
deserves that and so much more.
“Thank
you, God, for putting Cathy in my path. Thank you.”
Leaning closer to the mirror, I survey what the ravages of time, grief, starvation, and misery have done to me. Not too bad considering in a few months, I’ll be thirty-one, which seems odd to think about because for two years straight, I never knew if I’d wake up to see another sunrise. The last twelve years of my nomadic, crazy life drift through my thoughts while I wait for the reeking air to dry my skin.
Tuesday, March 1, 2022
Reclamation - Upcoming Release Alert and First Chapter Sneak Peek!
I am thrilled to announce my first horror novel, Reclamation, which is now available by clicking here:
Synopsis:
Mandy Morgan
touts herself as an E.R.E.: Essence Reclamation Expert. Together with her twin
brother, Parker, the computer wizard of the duo, they grift across the country,
scamming the bereaved by faking hauntings and then reclaiming the disembodied
souls, all for a hefty price.
After
arriving in the small, southern town of Forest Haven, Arkansas, to swindle the
family of Jared Kendal, recently deceased, a sense of doom swirls inside her
mind as strange events unfold. She’s portrayed the role of an essence reclamation
expert for years, toying with people grieving for lost loved ones, conning them
for cash when they are at their most vulnerable stage in life, feeling no shame
or sorrow for the pain she causes the naïve fools, yet she now worries the lies
have wormed their way into her psyche.
As they prepare
to con Jared Kendal’s widow, Clara, Mandy’s worst fears come to fruition as she
discovers there is a high price to pay for leading such a deplorable life, and
when fate calls, she cannot run or hide.
CHAPTER ONE
While walking toward the parking area, Mandy enjoys the
festive decorations plastered on the streetlights and storefronts. Santas,
reindeer, elves, holly, bulbs, Christmas trees, snowmen, and countless nativity
scenes are everywhere she looks. Stopping at the display window of an antique
store, her lips curve into a sneer while staring at an old wooden dressing
table adorned with a silver hairbrush and unopened bottle of White Shoulders.
The items bring back unwanted and
unwelcomed childhood memories.
Inhaling the crisp air to rid herself
of the stench of her youth, she takes in the sparkling, multi-colored lights,
blinking in time with Christmas music drifting from hidden speakers
strategically interspersed throughout downtown. She loves the cooler weather,
especially landscapes peppered with vibrant orange, sunny yellow, and
eye-popping crimson foliage. It’s a shame all the gorgeous leaves fell off and
died. The twisted, bare limbs appear as gnarled monster hands reaching into the
night sky, searching for prey to dismember.
Earlier in the day, energy from the
hustle and bustle of people obsessed with the minutia encompassing the
celebration of Christmas electrified the air. The streets are empty now that
Black Friday sales ended. A few stragglers scurry around like panicked ants,
bumping into each other in their quests to snag the perfect gift before the
stores close. During the hours-long shopping excursion, she’d witnessed several
arguments resulting in loud shouting matches and twice, fists flew.
As evening approached, most folks
rushed home after emptying the shelves, fearful of the predicted snowstorm. She
understands the urge, though for a different reason. Southerners are
notoriously poor drivers in pleasant weather. When faced with slick roads, they
are horrible and dangerous. She can handle driving in winter weather, but
certainly could not control the stupidity of others. The last thing she needs
is a cop summoned to an accident scene asking nosey questions.
A gust of frigid wind blows tendrils of
auburn curls out from underneath the beanie and across her face. Something
sticks to her boot. Bending down, she picks it up, realizing it’s a flyer.
We opened early. Bring this card and
treat yourself today with a free Peppermint Mocha at Gerald’s Java! Happy
Holidays!
The enticing aroma of roasted coffee
beans and cinnamon catches her attention. Turning to gaze up the block, she
notices a neon sign blinking “Open” above the entrance of the coffeehouse.
“Huh. Guess I passed right by this
morning and didn’t notice they opened. Oh, my lucky day!”
Snagging a free drink before heading
home to meet with Parker sounds fantastic. After spending hours tromping
through stores, she craves a jolt of something hot with a stiff caffeine kick.
Maybe a wheat bagel, too. Necessary fuel to recharge her dwindling battery and
a chance to rest tired feet. There are several details to finalize before
completing their new job next week. Plus, she wants to show him the items
purchased on sale.
Shoving the paper into her pocket, she
smiles while walking. Free coffee and a somewhat healthy snack are exactly what
she needs. It isn’t Starbucks, but it will have to do.
Opening the door, a bell tinkles, a
jingly signal to the lone barista a customer entered. A wave of heat slams into
her as though standing in front of a blast furnace. The interior is stifling.
On instinct, her sharp gaze sweeps over the newly remodeled space, making sure
she doesn’t know any occupants inside. The shop is cute, artsy, and whimsical,
with a vast array of decorations stretching from the 40s all the way through to
the 90s, and the best part is no other customers, which means no wait time and
no one to concern herself with who might recognize her face.
A bleached blonde, wearing very little
clothing for such a chilly evening, leans against the counter, pecking away on
her phone. No wonder it is so hot. The girl is practically naked.
The barista looks up from the cell in
her hand and smiles. A set of enormous doe-eyes rimmed in black eyeliner and
framed with extremely long eyelashes stares without blinking. The amount of
rouge slathered across her cheeks is comical. Clown-like. Searching for any
sign of recognition, Mandy contains a sigh of relief. The only familiarity in
the face stems from the makeup tricks favored by her mother, which makes her
skin crawl. “Hi.”
“Evening. Welcome to Gerald’s Java. I’m
Emma. What may I get started for you? Fair warning, we’re outta peppermint
mocha, so no more freebies.”
The thick accent sends waves of
irritation grinding through Mandy’s teeth. She hates hearing a southern drawl
and abhors speaking with one. It sounds, and feels, like nails down a
chalkboard.
Mentally salivating over the
ridiculously large cinnamon rolls dripping with creamy icing, she fights the
urge to order one. Taking a deep breath, she drawls, “Oh, too bad. I was
looking forward to peppermint and chocolate. The combination is my favorite.
How about a venti caramel macchiato with an extra shot of espresso and a wheat
bagel with low-fat cream cheese?”
“Oh, I think we’re out of those. Let me
check.”
“Sure.”
Emma ducks behind the counter.
Kitchenware rattles as she pilfers through the cabinets. “Sit anywhere you
like. Rush is over, but I’m still trying to catch my breath! There wasn’t a
place to set a shopping bag down about an hour ago. When I ran out of
peppermint mocha, I had one angry mob of tired lady shoppers on my hands, all
demanding free drinks. Wish the owners woulda bought more, and hired extra help,
but I guess they didn’t know we’d be this busy on opening day. I mean, this is
a small town, right?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Shoot, we’re outta bagels and cream
cheese. Sorry.” Emma pops back up. “Wow, your eyes are such a beautiful shade
of green! Contacts?”
“No, genetics.”
“Oh, of course. Redhead. Duh! Dang,
listen to me prattle on while your cheeks are redder than that pretty hair.
Meemaw always said ginger curls make fragile girls. Pale skin’s thinner and
gets colder faster. Know what I’m saying?”
Rather than scowling at the rude
comments, somewhat stunned by the speed and cadence of Emma’s words, Mandy
keeps her features neutral while nodding. Hearing a southerner speak so fast is
like talking to someone from California high on meth with a southern drawl.
The girl obviously cannot tell the hair
is a wig. Mandy always buys the best. Emma missed the fact that if Mandy was a
natural redhead, she’d have freckles.
Emma puts on an apron. “Thank goodness
the weather forecast changed. Ain’t no worries about slipping and sliding all
the way home.”
“Really?”
“Yep, no snow, only freezing temps.
Storm didn’t dip down far enough to affect us. It sure is cold up here in the
mountains. Dealing with my first winter almost makes me regret moving. Temps
don’t get this chilly where I’m from. But I’m a love-struck goose, so wherever
my Kevin goes, I follow. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he inherited a free
place to live, so how could we turn that down?”
“In this tough economy, how indeed?”
“His aunt Aileen died a few months ago
and left him a big old house over in Forest Haven on Mercer Drive. It’s
gorgeous and overlooks the river. Even has a red-tiled roof! My drive to work
is stunning, so I don’t mind the two-lane road and all those curves. Well,
except if there’s ice. We southern gals don’t do well on ice, do we?”
Emma winks with such force the eyelash
flutters.
“No, we surely don’t.” Mandy returns
the gesture, wondering why so many southerners feel the urge to share their
entire life stories with complete strangers.
“Kevin wants to get hitched and start a
family. Got it in his head to fill up the place with the pitter-patter of tiny
feet. I told him I’d marry him but ain’t ready to pop out little ones. I’m too
young to give up my figure. The women in my family have a long line of wide
hips and big backsides magically appearing after childbirth.”
Emma chortles at her joke.
Mandy flashes a fake smile, wishing the
annoying girl would stop yammering. Her stomach growls. She hadn’t eaten a
thing since breakfast, which was only half a piece of toast. Hunger combines
with the sweltering heat, making her feel woozy.
She knows exactly the house Emma means.
Interesting. The job for Aileen Reynolds is the one Parker wanted to take
instead of the one at the Kendals. She almost regrets overriding Parker’s
choice. It would have been fun to scare Emma into silence, even if only
temporarily.
“Would you like a cinnamon roll
instead? I saw you eyeing them.”
“No, thank you.”
“Let me know if you change your mind,
sugar. Those things are better than sex, and last longer too! Oops, gotta
remember not to say such things out loud. If Kevin heard me, he’d be three
shades of screwed up the next time we got naked.”
“Better than an orgasm, huh?”
“If I’m lying, I’m dying, and this
gal’s healthier than a prized racehorse.”
Cutting her gaze back over to the
delicious-looking dessert, Mandy’s stomach grumbles again. “Okay, you twisted
my arm.”
“I’ll bring your order over when ready.
I bet after all your shopping, your feet need a break. We’ve got magazines at
the end of the bar and each table has a newspaper. Sit, relax, and get yourself
unfrozen, darling! We’ll all see ya soon!”
Mandy’s brows furrow. Isn’t the
expression “y’all come back now” or something else equally stupid? The
butchered, improper pronunciation of the English language sends her nerves into
overdrive. She hates dropping the “g” at the end of words. Why did the southern
dialect do that? It was almost as annoying as people from back east and their
odd use of the letter “r.”
Being called sugar, sweetie, and
darling by a total stranger is beyond weird, hovering near creepy. Though she
can mimic countless accents depending upon which state they are in, when in the
south, she refuses to pepper phrases with such arcane language. Maybe in the
1950s, addressing people in such a manner was charming. In 2022, it is
offensive and condescending.
Reaching into her pocket, she removes
the last twenty, shocked at the ridiculous amount of money she’d spent in less
than ten hours. She places it on the counter as Emma busies herself preparing
the order. She doesn’t tip, but for some unknown reason, feels the overwhelming
urge to do so.
A familiar odor fills the hot, heavy
air. Mandy nearly gags. Despite the heat, chills ripple across her body, making
goosebumps sprout. “Is that White Shoulders I smell?”
“Yes, ma’am. Found it at Raney’s
antique store. It was my meemaw’s favorite foo-foo juice.”
Mandy stiffens. She hasn’t heard the
expression in over seven years. “Come again?”
“That’s what Meemaw called perfume—foo-foo
juice. She died when I was eighteen, so when I saw the bottle, I just had to
have some. Reminds me of my younger days.”
“It was my mother’s favorite, too, and
she used the same description for cologne.”
“Ain’t that something! You said ‘was.’
Did your momma pass on, sugar?”
“Yes. Several years ago. I was eighteen
as well.”
“Small world, huh?”
“I reckon.”
“I never met my mother. Meemaw raised
me. I remember her saying my ma was an alley cat, always slinking around for
the next good thing, which apparently didn’t include me. Broke my spirit when
Meemaw passed on, but at least I’ve got my Kevin. Anyway, enough about my woes.
They got more White Shoulders over at Raney’s. It’s only two doors down. You
should go buy some to wear so you never forget momma.”
Mandy shivers again. There is no way
she’d do such a thing. She wants to erase the memories of her youth, especially
the ones of Patrick and Sharay Morgan, not revisit them. “Thanks for the tip.”
“Welcome. Now, like I said, sit
anywhere ya like. I’ll be done in a sec.”
The whir of the espresso machine drowns
out an acoustic version of “Jingle Bell Rock” playing softly in the background.
Deciding to sit near the window, Mandy takes off the beanie and heavy coat,
pushing aside the newspaper on the table. A thin sheen of sweat dots her
forehead. Should she ask Emma to turn the heat down? No, that will just invite
more mind-numbing conversation peppered with down-home slang.
Mentally cringing that she used the
phrase, “I reckon,” she stares out the window, beyond ready for the Kendal job
to be over so they could head back east for the next one. If she said or heard
‘y’all’ one more time, her brain might explode.
A memory bursts inside her mind of her
father smacking the backs of their heads each time one of them used incorrect
pronunciation or had a hint of a dialect other than the location they were
currently living in.
His growly voice follows the painful
vision: “Leave no crumbs for law enforcement to follow. No bank accounts or
checks or credit cards. Pay for everything in cash. Be ghosts. Blend into your
surroundings. Adapt. Never wear the same disguise twice. Never, under any
circumstances, do any business in the town where the job is. All transactions
are to be conducted in a neighboring city. Fly under the radar and then
disappear like morning fog on a sunny day.”
Patrick Russell Morgan had been a mean,
short-tempered bastard with no fatherly qualities. Sharay Nicole Morgan had
been a woman bereft of warm, maternal instincts or compassion. Patrick and
Sharay had been too busy planning out their next swindle to be parents to or
love their twins. Mandy and Parker had only served as bait in countless schemes
across the states.
If there is any sort of life after
death, and any cosmic justice, her parents are in abject misery.
For eternity.
Nipping the skin surrounding her left
thumb, the taste of copper fills her mouth. The nervous habit appeared in
childhood and never left. She frowns while wrapping a paper napkin around the
edge to stop the bleeding.
There isn’t a reason to be nervous.
Patrick and Sharay are long since dead. The upcoming job with Parker isn’t
their first rodeo. They had prepped and planned for every conceivable outcome.
The traffic light changes from green to
yellow to red. An SUV nearly t-bones a pickup. Tires squall. A few onlookers
whip out cameras, clicking away like tourists on their first trip to the U.S.
The driver of the truck screams obscenities out the window, face scrunching in
anger. The female SUV operator responds by flipping the bird before
disappearing into the night.
Why is she so edgy? The holidays?
Crazed shoppers? Disturbing memories of her parents? Hunger? The town?
No, despite its many flaws, she likes
the area. Quaint. It is close, but not too close, to Forest Haven, where they’d
been staying for the last two months. Crawfordsville, Arkansas, is clean and
full of old-school charm and nostalgia. Most of the original brick structures
built in the late 1800s still stand, cared for and updated by each new generation.
Homes dot the landscape with large, wrap-around porches and enormous windows to
give the occupants stunning views of the Ouachita Mountains.
If she settles down, which she never
would—repetition is her Kryptonite—Crawfordsville would be her choice. Friendly
people, yet not so over-friendly they are in the middle of everyone else’s
business. Well, except for a chipper clerk named Emma hawking caffeine and
sugar highs at the local coffee shop like a pimp enticing horny Johns.
She chuckles softly at the joke.
Unlike Crawfordsville, most residents
of Forest Haven are elderly and come from old money. Earlier research concluded
it had been a boomtown in the late 60s to early 90s, but after the gas pipeline
shut down, other businesses followed. The town’s population withered down to an
unrecognizable husk of its former numbers. Younger citizens moved away to seek
new lives in more vibrant and economically stable environments. Forest Haven is
dying fast, just like its elderly residents, which is exactly why the Morgan
twins picked the location.
Emma brings over the order, flashing a
big smile while setting the items on the table. “Enjoy! We close in
half-an-hour so I gotta start shutting things down. No rush, sweetie. Oh, and
here’s a little something special for when you get home. You look like you need
it.”
“What is it?”
“Consider it an early Christmas
present.”
Mandy opens the white paper bag. It
contains an extra cinnamon roll. Embarrassment floods her chest and cheeks.
“Thank you.”
“Welcome, doll.” Emma points to the
newspaper. “You got time to unwind and catch up on news, maybe even find a good
coupon or two.”
Watching a tight ass, firm thighs, and
svelte waist saunter away, Mandy understands exactly why Emma wants to wait for
children.
She recalls one of Sharay’s favorite
digs said each time she looked in the mirror when her children were within
earshot: When you have a smoking body, don’t ruin it by having kids Mandy
almost laughs out loud. Her sugar levels must be low if she’s quoting Sharay.
After taking a sip of the drink and two
huge bites of the bun, she nearly swoons in the chair. Emma is right—the
decadent treat is better than sex. Of course, she’d never been intimate with
another, so not a fair comparison.
Emma cleans while humming a tune Mandy
vaguely recognizes. It sounds like “Highway to Hell” by AC/DC, which she finds
hilarious. Not a typical song to hum, especially during the holidays.
She takes another bite and then chokes
upon realizing they never found a trace of Emma in their research into recently
deceased Aileen Reynolds and her only living heir—Kevin Reynolds.
How did they miss Kevin had a
girlfriend, especially one serious enough to pack up and follow him from
Louisiana to Arkansas? There was not one picture or mention of Emma on all his
social media. Her presence could have been a tremendous problem.
No, not possible. She and Parker poured
hours and hours into their research before selecting the next target. They knew
about animals, friends, job history, relatives, favorite colors, movies, books,
food, spouses, children, and every other crumb of information combined to
understand the entire life story of the deceased.
Worry slithers up her spine, meeting
the rivulets of perspiration sliding down. Something is wrong. Edginess teeters
near the precipice of fear. She needs to calm down, not flip out, and think.
She cocks her head slightly, turning
enough to see Emma, wondering exactly what is going on. The girl stands by the
freezer, seemingly oblivious to Mandy’s scrutinizing gaze. Why did Emma mention
the newspaper twice?
Dread coils inside her gut as she
reaches across the table. Maybe Emma is in disguise and possibly a family
member of someone she and Parker fleeced during the past seven years? Were they
the prey this time and not the predators? Did Emma, or a cohort in crime, harm
Parker while she shopped? Kidnap him? If she flips open the pages, will she
find a ransom note?
If I do, you’re dead where you stand,
bitch. Dead. Dead. Deadski.
Fingers trembling from a mixture of
worry and anger, she snatches up the paper. Her mouth gapes open, unable to
form a single word, tongue shocked into silence. In her hand is the Minot
Daily News dated December 30, 2015, with the headline, “Man and woman found
dead in a local hotel from carbon monoxide poisoning. Police seeking public’s
help in identifying them.”
She takes in a ragged breath, unable to
find any plausible explanation why the Minot, North Dakota paper with the
article about the death of Patrick and Sharay seven years prior sits in a coffee
shop in Crawfordsville, Arkansas.
Fuck this. I don’t want to know. Leave.
Now.
She throws on the coat, smashes on the
beanie, picks up the packages, food, and coffee. Her gut instincts are never
wrong and right now, they scream for her to flee, swing by the rent house,
pack, and then get the hell out of Arkansas.
After only a few steps toward the exit,
a wave of dizziness slams into her so hard she stumbles. Black dots cloud her
vision. The stench of White Shoulders fills her nostrils.
“Have a great night! Tell Parker we
said hello. We’ll all see ya soon!”
The voice sends shock waves throughout
her entire torso. It is all wrong—impossible. Glancing back, Mandy gasps,
because the woman waving from behind the counter isn’t Emma.
It’s Sharay, dressed in the same slutty
clothes she had on the night in the hotel, skin cherry-red from the poison
circulating inside the room, and ebony hair in tangled knots.
Just like the night we…oh, shit.
The room spins. Waves of heat ripple
across her body, turning her legs into jelly. The walls undulate, synchronized
in time as though intakes of breath. Fumbling twice to push the door open, she
bursts outside. Frigid wind slaps her in the face, helping her regain full
control of all mental faculties. A light mist pelts the already damp ground as
she runs. She makes it to the antique store before slowing down to look over
her shoulder.
Panic wells inside her chest. She
slides to a stop. Her head buzzes with the rapid thumps of blood whooshing with
each racing heartbeat.
Brown construction paper covers the
storefront of Gerald’s Java with bright red letters painted across, reading: Excuse
our mess. Opening day is January 5 at 6:00 a.m.! First 100 customers get a free
peppermint mocha!
Looking down at her hands, she bites
her lip to keep from screaming.
No coffee.
No cinnamon buns.
Only the packages from the earlier
shopping trip, which she promptly drops.
She shoves her hand into the pocket of
the coat, pulling out the twenty. Digging faster, she searches for the flyer
but comes up with nothing.
Blood continues whooshing inside her
brain as she gapes at the money. “This isn’t happening. There’s no fucking
way.”
Spinning around, intending to head back
to the car, her boots lose traction on the slick concrete. Her body slams into
the cold ground. The impact knocks the wind from her lungs and her head bounces
off the surface with such force, bright stars sparkle behind her eyes.
Dead trees bob and weave, limbs arcing
downward toward her, branches opening and closing as though eager to snatch her
up. The wind howls, and for a brief second, she hears, “We’ll all see you
soon!”
Dazed and in pain, she pukes.
After retching, she closes her eyes
while taking several deep breaths, concentrating on nothing but the cold air
entering her lungs.
~*~
“Ma’am, are you okay? Shall I summon an ambulance?”
Clawing up through the murkiness
swirling inside her mind, Mandy opens her eyes. The aging countenance of a
concerned man with thick, white eyebrows and beard stares back, hovering only
inches away. He looks like a slimmer version of Santa Claus.
Damn, how hard did I hit my head? My
rescuer is a skinny Kris Kringle? Great. Hope I don’t have to ride in a sleigh.
She swallows hard, and blinks twice,
confused by the pain in her throat. “No, I’m fine but could use some help up.”
“Are you sure? Let me at least get you
some bandages and water from inside. I have some in the back.”
Scanning the area for her purse, she
finds it resting underneath the window display, inches away from her fingers.
She shakes her head while holding out an arm. “Positive. I just want to go
home.”
“Please, we’re closed, but since I’m
the owner, can open right back up.”
“Ah, so you aren’t Santa Claus. Mr.
Raney, right?”
He beams while tipping a black fedora.
“Yes, ma’am. I let my beard grow out during the holidays. I volunteer over at
the orphanage as jolly ol’ St. Nick. Kids love it.”
“How nice of you. All I need for
Christmas is to gather my belongings and head home.”
“Sure thing. Here, grab on.”
Once on her feet, she looks down the
sidewalk. Gerald’s Java is still closed. Instinct urges her to search for
cameras, so she looks up, dismayed to see one above the doorframe of the
antique store. She sways a fraction. Pushing past the dizziness, she re-situates
the purse as the scrawny Santa hands over the packages. “Thank you.”
“Welcome, ma’am. You’re bleeding, and
don’t seem too steady. Are you sure you don’t want to come inside?”
“I’m okay. My pride’s what hurts. Can’t
remember the last time I fell.” She nods towards the surveillance equipment.
“Please promise me you’ll delete the footage of me face planting before anyone
else sees it?”
“No
need to fret, ma’am. The camera’s just for show, so it did not capture your
tumble, nor did any of the others.” Mr. Raney points across the street. “We
installed the fakes as cheap deterrents. We’re all small potatoes around these
parts, and none of us make enough profit to invest in such expensive items. So,
we banned together and bought ten fake ones online and split the cost. Best
twenty bucks I’ve ever spent.”
She lets out a long breath. The last
thing she needs is her image on camera, even if she is wearing a disguise.
“Good to know.”
“It’s all my fault you injured
yourself. I intended to put some salt out on the walk, but when the forecast
changed, I simply forgot. I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize. Salt or not, I’m
a klutz. Appreciate your help. Have a good evening, Mr. Raney.”
“Same to you, ma’am. Be careful on the
roads. They’re wet, too.”
“I will.”
With slow, calculated steps, she makes
her way down the remaining three blocks to the car, wondering how long she was
out, and if anyone else saw her fall.
~*~
Once inside and engine idling, she turns on the overhead
light to assess the injury. It takes several seconds for her eyes to focus.
When they do, she does a double-take. She has in the brown contacts.
A thick rivulet of blood trickles down
her cheek, oozing from a thumb-sized gash near the eyebrow. Should she risk
going to an emergency walk-in clinic to see if the wound requires stitches? No,
the staff would ask too many questions. Parker can help her fix it, plus a real
scar might come in handy on jobs.
Dabbing at the blood, she notices her
forehead is on fire. Slouching back in the seat, she chuckles. “Okay, stop by
Walgreens on the way home and pick up some meds. Fever, dizziness, sore throat,
nausea, and chills. I’ve got the flu. A high temp makes some people
hallucinate. Seeing the White Shoulders bottle brought back terrible memories.
Obviously, my subconscious noticed Gerald’s Java when walking past it this
morning. I slipped, fell, and rang my bell. Imagined it all. Guess the holidays
reminded me of the night we killed Patrick and Sharay. That was not Mom’s
ghost back there. Ghosts are not real. I’m wearing the brown contacts. There
was no Emma, no Gerald’s Java, only a kind old dude who looked like Santa
Claus. Wait, was he real? Damn, I’ve got to take some medicine and soak in a
warm bath because my mind’s three shades of screwed up.”
She bites her lip hard enough to draw
blood. She can’t afford to be sick. Illness creates missteps.
The fever intensifies. Heat radiates
from her ears and cheeks. She must get home before passing out.
Pulling out of the parking lot onto
Grand Avenue, she turns on the radio, hoping some Christmas music will help
soothe her frazzled nerves. Instead of something merry and bright, “Highway to
Hell” by AC/DC blares through the speakers. Rather than change the channel, she
belts out the words along with Bon Scott.
While singing and driving, she hopes once the fever breaks, she’ll forget everything about the evening—except for the terrifying encounter at Gerald’s Java. She’ll relay all the sensory information to Parker so they can use it for future reclamation jobs.
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