Beneath the Cracks

By LS Sygnet

(Second book in the Eriksson Series)

Helen Eriksson is pulled into a new investigation when Darkwater Bay police approach her for help after another homeless man is found dead in a dumpster in Downey. His cause of death is certain -- a drug overdose, but the disturbing similarities to five other homeless men discarded with the refuse cannot be overlooked. The other causes of death? A complete mystery, one which Helen and her colleagues at Downey Division must uncover before more men are killed.

Frustrated with Helen Eriksson's secrets and lies, Johnny Orion embarks on a distant journey that leads him to seek the truth independently. What he uncovers isn't nearly as disturbing as the suspicion growing about Helen's past -- and her present behavior.

In Darkwater Bay, the panacea of work can't completely distract Helen from the reality that her lies are continuing to catch up with her, that Special Agent Mark Seleeby isn't giving up on his investigation into her ex-husband's murder or her role in that crime, and that there could have been an eye-witness who saw what she did. Fear makes her careless. Distrust of everyone puts her life at risk, and in the end, threatens to expose a past she desperately wants to deny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LS Sygnet
• Release date: Sep 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301472949

LS Sygnet

LS Sygnet was a mastermind of schoolyard schemes as a child who grew into someone who channeled that inner criminal onto the pages of books. Sygnet worked full-time in the nursing profession for 29 years before her "semi-retirement" in March 2014.She currently lives in Georgia, but Colorado will always be her home.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Preacher scratched the stringy beard that stretched down and covered his neck. Dusk had fallen over Darkwater Bay, along with it, the heavy shroud of evening fog. He shivered and tugged the edges of tattered flannel closer to his chest. Hooded eyes scanned the neighborhood. The long row of Harley Davidson motorcycles lined a filthy, rundown street. The door to Uncle Nooky's banged and shuddered on its hinges when another leather and chain-clad patron entered.

He'd give his eyeteeth to somehow shed this skin he'd slid into, exchange it for one that granted him access to the inner circle. If only he'd had a better picture of the circumstances in this forgotten corner of Downey, the neglected neighborhood that prided itself on seedy establishments and faces that remained invisible to the upstanding folks hell bent on making the rest of Downey respectable again.

No, this part of town belonged in Darkwater proper. A few months ago, it would've fit right in next door to Central Division. But that was before Helen Eriksson blew into town and exposed Jerry Lowe for the corrupt bastard that he was. Now…well, maybe the rest of Darkwater Bay had a fighting chance to become something more than the sum of its parts.

But not if things didn't change here – in Downey, on Northeastern and Third where something still festered. Something uglier than anybody imagined. Gut instinct led him to Uncle Nooky's Bar and Grill. Oddly, this seemed to be the respectable business. The shelter? Something about the place was more than a little off. But what was it?

Preacher's shoulders folded inward against the chill of the damp October night air as he bent into the wind blowing swirls of fog through the streets. It would be seven soon, and if the slow moving headlights coming up Northeastern were any clue, his ride would be at the shelter about the same time he rounded the corner. This was his chance. Life didn't offer many golden opportunities to really make a difference in the world.

The van was at the curb when he rounded the corner on Sixth. As he approached, Preacher shielded his eyes from the glare of high beam lights. A side door slid open. A cloying sweet scent rolled from inside the van and blasted Preacher's nostrils. Incense? It was like nothing he'd smelled before.

You comin' this time or not, Preacher?

He scratched at a beard that quite possibly housed lice. Yeah, he nodded. I'm in for a week, he said. If nothing else, he might make inroads with someone who actually understood what was happening, how his fellow patrons of the shelter were ending up in dumpsters with alarming frequency.

Preacher climbed inside and hit a wall of another kind. A chill ran down his spine. There wasn't a face in the van that he recognized, and none of them looked particularly disappointed at his arrival. At the same time, the menacing glares were far less than happy to see him.

Too late to hesitate, he was already inside the blandly nondescript van. Preacher raised two fingers and started muttering scripture.

One of the men in the van snorted softly. Let's head out. We got all we need for this week.

The van rounded the corner onto Northeastern and headed down the block back toward the row of parked Harleys. Preacher saw them out of the corner of his eye and again experienced a wistful pang that events hadn't gone in a different direction. Yet the end result would've been the same. Nooky's patrons were the ones who made tonight seem like a good idea after all. No way were they tolerant of a homeless man, no matter how harmless he was.

Then again, they only thought Preacher was harmless…

The throwaway cell phone that arrived at his secret place in Newark was a mystery. Franchetta carried it for three days with curiosity itching through every fiber of his body. It had nothing to do with the note accompanying it, or the cryptic hint at the identity of who planned to call him.

You’re following in your father’s footsteps, Eddie.

Only one man would ever have the stones to say such a thing to Franchetta. Problem was, there could be no swift retribution for the insult, since the man in question was behind bars. Yeah, he knew the Franchetta family history, so the dig about Eddie’s father could’ve only come from one man – the guy who arrested his father.

This wasn’t Marcos playing games, not that it was ever his style anyway. If Sully wanted Eddie Franchetta, there were other ways of ferreting him out. So when the left pocket of his tattered jacket vibrated, the unforgotten device was yanked into a greedy palm. The motion startled the breath from his lungs. Was the cryptic message true? Had the old man somehow tracked him down? The burning question was why. Why would he give a damn about Franchetta after so many years in prison?

Yeah.

Were you followed by anyone to Newark?

An indignant puff of air rasped across the long distance connection. The fact that he didn’t recognize the voice was confirmation enough of the caller’s identity as far as Franchetta was concerned. I'm not some rank amateur, he growled. "And I don't appreciate the insult, not from the likes of you."

The deep voice chuckled. Let's not get too outraged, Eddie. I could've called that bastard who owns you and enlightened him to my theory, rather than contacting you. We both know where you'd be right about now if I'd taken a different course of action.

Listen old man, I don't know who the fuck you think you are anymore, but I'm beyond your reach. You got that?

"Do you really believe that, Mr. Franchetta? Or do you honestly think that I don't have more than a modicum of respect in my current living situation? It is rather atypical for me to make phone calls without someone paying attention to where my fingers have gone walking. I’ll not tax you with details such as how I managed to make sure you’d answer the phone you received."

Franchetta snarled softly. You made your point. What do you want?

Information, at the moment.

I owe you nothing.

"Then maybe Sully would appreciate my knowledge of where his money landed – or more importantly, who embezzled it. You and I know damn well that it wasn't Rick Hamilton."

Franchetta's breath stilted half way between his trachea and freedom.

Have I got your cooperation yet?

Fuck you, Franchetta rasped. You couldn't possibly know jack –

An account in the Caymans, I believe. Would you like the account number?

The sound of metal grinding against flint floated across the phone line followed swiftly by Franchetta's deep inhalation. You've been out of the loop for a long time. I think you're bluffing.

Account number 124096380, from Grand Cayman International, if my source is correct. Do I have your attention yet, Eddie?

The pause stretched between blasts of smoke from Franchetta's nostrils. His teeth ground through the filter of his Camel. I'm listening.

Good. Now I’d suggest you listen to what I want very carefully. I'm not asking you to betray Sully, after all. At least not any more than you've already done.

The chuckle prickled the skin on the back of Franchetta's neck, drew the fine hairs taut as they stood on end.

What do you want?

Information, nothing more.

About?

Take a wild guess, Eddie.

The bitch. It had to be about the bitch. What else could this bastard want to know? You're going to have to be more specific.

I want to know how Hamilton died.

Cagey, not to ask about her outright. Somebody put a pistol behind his right ear and pulled the trigger.

Witnesses?

Maybe, maybe not, Franchetta's audible smirk accompanied the admission.

Dammit.

You of all people disapprove? Jesus, what did you expect? Not all of us were duped into believing her act.

The weapon?

Gone.

You have it? he rasped softly.

Hell, don't I wish, Franchetta chuckled. I could solve a multitude of problems if I did.

Who has it? Surely she didn't keep it.

Unless someone wants to drag twenty miles of the Potomac to find the pieces, nobody's gonna have that particular gun.

This witness, he didn't feel compelled to stop the gun's disposal?

"Why make things easy for the feds or for Sully? Everybody knows who pulled the trigger. It's the doubt – reasonable or through lack of evidence – that makes all of this interesting. Everybody, and I do mean everybody, is satisfied with the status quo."

Even Sully?

Franchetta cursed softly. Everybody minus one.

I'd wager the bureau isn't particularly thrilled that their would-be songbird was so permanently silenced either.

Fuck the FBI, Franchetta spat. He flicked the cigarette butt into the shadows in the dank alley when the cherry burned the fleshy insides of his fingers. Since when do you care what the cops want?

You might be surprised by that answer, Eddie. Let's not forget the other important player in this story who is certain to be seething with rage but for far different reasons.

Franchetta laughed. You think Marcos gives a shit what Danny Datello thinks? Let me assure you, he does not. Danny boy severed those ties long ago.

Yes, but he still was the one who brought the launderer into the fold. He clicked his tongue softly against his teeth. Or is Uncle Sully of the mind that Hamilton absconded with cash at Danny's behest?

I wouldn't know.

Then you haven't received any orders to…uh…prune an errant branch from the family tree?

Franchetta laughed softly. Oh, hell no. Sully doesn't have to do anything about that situation, not with the bitch stalking Danny. He'll meet an untimely end free of charge, much like poor old Rick did.

This time, the stilted breath didn't come from Eddie Franchetta. What exactly are you saying?

Franchetta needed the confirmation, if there was any hope in hell of maintaining the status quo. Was Datello the reason she relocated? If it was, the whole ballgame changed. Hell, he could really pin the whole thing on Helen Eriksson.

I'm saying that you might have excellent sources in Grand Cayman, old man, but you've missed the boat to the west coast. She's there, and you can be damned sure that the Pacific will be a hell of a lot harder to drag for gun parts than the Potomac.

The mysterious voice chuckled. Now what makes you think my source for Darkwater Bay has failed me, Eddie? You've told me everything I needed to know. And I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

You son of a –

Ah-ah, he warned mildly. You may think you're beyond my reach, Franchetta, but you'll do exactly as I direct you to do – if you want what I know about the Caymans to remain between the two of us. I expect you to respond promptly if I need to speak to you again. If that’s not the case…

Your next call is to Marcos, he muttered.

Always knew you were cleverer than your father, Eddie. You know how to contact me if you hear of anything that I should know, yes?

The post office box in that little note you sent.

Indeed it is.

And our phrase so he remains unaware of your guilt?

The old man laughed again. You have word regarding how Helen fares. He'll get the message to me, and I'll know it's you.

The resounding click followed by nothing but dead air left Franchetta muttering a spate of curses. He'd like to tell the son of a bitch that Helen was six feet under. Then again, the man had tentacles that reached beyond what one would expect for a man kept in virtual isolation from his fellow inmates, let alone the world at large. At least that was what Franchetta believed about the man contacting him.

Orion sat in his sedan half a block away from the house atop the high cliff overlooking the Pacific. The lights blazed in the windows. Wasting electricity, he thought. He watched the moving van from Behan’s exit through the open gate before it rolled smoothly shut. Still decorating the new house.

Bitterness vied with the warm feelings in his heart. Four lousy months and change, and Helen Eriksson couldn't be bothered to take the bait. Not one time had she picked up the phone and called, even though he'd left the door wide open, the ball in her court. Clearly, she still wasn't ready.

What he'd learned in the following weeks made him question her sanity. How could she grieve the death of a bastard like Rick Hamilton?

But Maya Winslow promised him that if Helen even hinted at reluctance because of her dearly departed ex-husband, it was absolutely the truth. Then again, Maya had her own theories about why Helen would mourn his death.

You don't know her like I do, Orion. She's the type of woman who needs answers. The fact that Rick died before the federal prosecutors squeezed the truth out of him is probably bothering her almost as much as the fact that she was married to a criminal and had no idea.

And just how had that happened? Johnny scratched his head and silently prayed for just a glimpse of her…something…anything that let him see for himself that she really was all right.

Crevan Conall swore she was. Tony Briscoe simply grinned and all but dared him to buzz at Helen's gate and see for himself. Yeah, they'd seen her, been in contact frequently as they sought her insight into cases for Downey Division over the past few months.

He wanted to be mad at her. He craved outrage that would make him forget those eyes, that mind that seemed to see beyond the surface of everything other people noticed.

Those thoughts only plagued him further. Helen Eriksson was too astute to be blinded by love. So how the hell had she spent almost ten years married to a bastard who laundered money for Sully Marcos and remained ignorant? If she loved with the same fervor as she did her job as an investigator, it wasn’t possible.

Headlights illuminated the crest of the hill but flickered out before another sedan crawled up the way. It slowed as it approached the gate at the end of Helen's driveway. Johnny ducked before it passed him on the street.

He popped the glove compartment and pulled out his night vision goggles and slid them over his eyes, but the vehicle disappeared around the curve on the desolate street. He cursed softly and dropped them into the seat beside him. With one last wistful glance at Helen's new house – the one Maya swore was keeping her too busy to resume more social activities – he started the car and swung it in a wide arc. The taillights of the car nearly disappeared by the time he rounded the curve on Helen's street. Headlights back on.

It was blatant surveillance, but by whom? Johnny flipped his headlights on and sped into the night. He closed the gap as inconspicuously as possible and followed the car into Darkwater proper.

Johnny cursed softly, immediately recognizing the route to the industrial neighborhood that was the destination of the lead vehicle. His heart sank when the car stopped in front of the Datello Enterprises building. He watched two men in suits exit the vehicle and meet another man waiting for them. They spoke briefly and walked briskly inside. From this distance, he couldn't tell which of Datello's thugs were keeping tabs on Helen. He'd recognize them, without a doubt. Johnny made it his business for the past two years to know anyone even loosely associated with Datello.

He'd have to settle for confirmation that the sedan was part of Datello's corporate fleet. Slowly, he rounded the corner and drove close enough to get a good look at the license plates.

Breath hitched in his throat. Above and below the lettered and numbered identifiers on both cars read US Government For Official Use Only.

The face of Special Agent Mark Seleeby flashed on the backs of his eyelids. What the hell is the FBI up to now? he muttered. He might not have been close enough to recognize who the men were, but he clearly saw who one of the men wasn’t – Supervisory Special Agent David Levine.

Chapter 2

Jerry Lowe, little psychopath that he was, did me a favor. In the months since his dual attempts on my life, everything in my life has changed. Well, almost everything. I thought at first that being forced to purchase the property that Lowe blew to bits along with one of his detectives was a curse, the proverbial albatross around my neck. Turns out, I’ve found the perfect cover, a legitimate activity that keeps people from wondering what I’m really up to.

Sure, it’s a beautiful house that I paid way more money to rebuild than dollar amount cut by an insurance company indicated. And it cost extra to complete it in just a few short months. Furnishing it has been the best cover imaginable.

I even discovered that I’ve sort of got a knack for home decorating. From the dark wood paneling in the study, with its built-in shelving and rich burgundy leather seating to the perfect fresco-style painted walls, my house grew into an exquisite masterpiece.

In any case, if an outsider could see what I’ve done in such a short period of time, they’d easily believe that’s all I’ve been doing. I’m basking in my retirement, immersed in building a new life within the walls of my new home. I’m following some very good advice. It's like Dad always said. Embrace that American dream, live it like you really believe it. But in the hidden office at the back of my house, another story unfolded. This was dark, clandestine, drenched with the bloody plans I could not abandon, no matter how much hope those around me tried to instill in my cold, heartless chest.

I learned more about the Marcos crime family in the past four months than I imagined existed. There was no turning back now. My focus was sharpened to the lethal width of a razor blade.

Hmm. Razor blades. Now there would make an interesting murder weapon. Danny Datello’s suffering was my top priority after all. Hadn't he made me suffer? After ten years of marriage to cousin Rick, I was worse than humiliated. The insinuation that I’m as dirty as the dearly departed ex-husband or simply flat-out stupid, it was an insult that could not go unanswered.

I had months to salve over the fearful wounds left by what we'd uncovered Jerry Lowe inflicted on the public at large. I wasn't after anyone that simply reminded me of my personal nemesis. Only the real deal would suffice. Then I'd be done. Retribution wouldn't turn me into a career or a monster like the one we captured last spring. It really wouldn't.

I’d be able to move on. That hated phrase taunted me. Get over it, Helen. Justice will be served. Always with a caveat, though. Justice will be served when the cowardly prosecutors think they have a case they can't lose. Of course, I had to take into account the idiot jurors who wanted some slick CSI moment in the courtroom. Morons. Reasonable doubt is not the same as no doubt or absolute certainty.

My justice system didn't fail. Nor would it.

I read meticulously while my brain plotted and churned out undocumented plans for the demise of my last enemy. Fortunately, the rest of the world didn't know that I had other plans.

The doorbell interrupted my daydreams of razor blades and peeling back layer after layer of skin until the fascia and muscle beneath were exposed. I imagined how grisly, black, necrotic and rancid Datello's must be under his skin. If evil had an appearance, surely it could be exposed beneath the façade of Danny Datello.

Again with the damned doorbell! What day was this anyway?

I made my way to the forward section of the house and flung the heavy beast open.

You forgot I was coming, didn't you? I assumed since the gate was open, you remembered. Do you want me to come back another time? We can do this another day if you like.

Maya Winslow, chief medical examiner for Bay County shot words like bullets and struggled to peek past me for a glimpse of my foyer in awe. I watched her eyes rove over the walnut banister and wrought iron spindles and that curved up the staircase to the second floor to the complementary lighting, a chandelier and wall sconces. She silently admired artwork and tapestries, the earthy tones of walls and warmth of the meticulously laid hardwood floors.

It's stunning, Helen. Absolutely breathtaking. Please don't tell me you forgot and I have to come back some other time.

I'll give you the grand tour later. Come to the kitchen. I've got the coffee brewing. Her footsteps echoed behind me as I led the way to that which sustains me. Well, half of it. Caffeine is the base of my food pyramid, followed by wine. Food is at the minuscule tip.

I poured two cups of coffee. Sugar? Cream?

Black's good.

That's a relief, I grinned. I haven't had time to get the fridge stocked.

I can see why, her eyes again devoured the setting, this time of my kitchen and family room. Helen, you've outdone yourself. How did you get this finished so quickly?

There was some money left over from the insurance check, and the rest was out of my divorce settlement. I've been shopping like crazy since before the place was finished. All I needed to do was move truckloads of furniture and such and put everything in order. Did you know that there's a fine furnishings store in Bay View that has virtual room decorating? You enter your color schemes and the room dimensions and you can actually see how your furniture will look before you buy it. Awesome tool. I can't believe everyone in retail isn't using it.

Maya sipped her coffee and hummed approval. I'm glad I could come see the place, Helen, but I get the distinct feeling that the grand tour wasn't why you really called me.

It was and it wasn't.

This is progress for you, she grinned. Still a little too cryptic for my taste, but I like this attempt at turning over a forthright leaf. I suppose I don't have to guess what the other reason was. I got a subpoena too. Are you anxious about facing him?

Maya referred of course to the pending litigation against Jerry Lowe, now a mere two weeks away, to determine his competence to stand trial. He's guilty as sin. There's no question about it.

Maya gripped my hand across the granite island. Then what's wrong?

I'm afraid the judge, like everyone else in the state, will believe that Lowe had to be crazy to do the things he did. Zack Carpenter is putting so much pressure on me to be the person that tips the scales of justice in our favor. You know Lowe's attorney is going to trot out expert after expert witness to give sworn testimony that Lowe was psychotic at the time he committed his crimes. Why would anyone believe me over medical doctors whose expertise far outweighs mine? I warned Zack. He simply won’t listen.

Cupcake, you've got something all the medical experts in the world don't have.

I know, the groan wrenched from deep in my gut. My decade with the FBI exposed me to the stark differences between mental illness and the evil men perpetrate toward one another. I've heard it all before. I'm scared. Too much of this hinges on my testimony, my ability to convince the judge to reject his insanity defense.

You only hold the clinical side of that argument, Helen. Not all of this rests on your shoulders. Charlie Haverston will be there too, and the other cops who worked with the two of you. I'm testifying; Forsythe is talking about the forensic evidence. You are not alone. Zack can even call Orion if need be.

He doesn't want to expose the fact that he's been working undercover. There's way too much at stake.

And there are ways to deal with his testimony while shielding his identity. Maya treaded carefully, perhaps because I recoiled from hearing the name. Have you spoken to Johnny lately, Helen?

I shook my head and forced a smile. I'm busy. He's busy. The planets aren't aligned.

I'm not sure what happened to make you avoid him –

This isn't avoidance. I've talked to Briscoe and Conall on numerous occasions. Then again, they hadn't taken no for an answer, showing up at will with cases they wanted my take on, particularly over the past couple of weeks. It was easy enough to give them an opinion and send them on their way. That had slowly eroded my resolve to steer clear of all things police related into accepting invitations to lunch and dinner.

Briscoe's famous last words just a few days ago: You gotta eat, Helen. Good puff of wind, and you'd go flyin' right off the cliff of your property into the sea.

Orion was different. He left the door open and invited me to walk through when I was ready. That day would not come. Sure, I knew where he was. But I wasn't about to go there.

Do you know what you need to do to make this official? You need to have a housewarming party. Don't look at me like I've lost my mind. I'm not talking about inviting all of Darkwater Bay in for a tour. Just a few people, friends you've made since you arrived.

That would be you.

I was a friend before you breezed into town. Charlie will forever be your friend, Helen. He's so grateful for the opportunity you gave him –

He and the others deserved the promotions to detective. It wasn't like central was overflowing with competent men.

True enough. Ken considers you a friend.

Forsythe? I scoffed. I haven't seen or spoken to him in months.

Tony and Crevan adore you.

That may be, but they're hardly –

And then there are the guys from OSI who haven't stopped asking how you're adjusting to civilian life.

Code for Orion and Darnell.

Maya, I don't want a bunch of virtual strangers traipsing through my house and peeking into my medicine cabinet. I've enjoyed the quiet, the solitude. Can't I simply enjoy the fact that there isn't a single orange shag carpet fiber in the place before you start sending out invitations to an open house?

She chuckled. It could be very simple. Of course it will be elegant. Wine and cheese perhaps. We could light that gorgeous fireplace… Who did the stonework on that thing? I've never seen anything like it.

Thin slabs of slate were arranged in an asymmetrical pattern that climbed jaggedly up part of the wall in the great room. I didn't want to deal with the mess of a wood fireplace, so the glow of the gas logs wasn't quite as cozy as Maya imagined. In Darkwater Bay's chilly climate, the aesthetic was less important to me than the heat.

I hired a mason who had some creative ideas about using the space in a more artistic and less traditional way, I shrugged one shoulder. I'll think about having a little soiree if you promise not to hound me about it. Deal?

The irony in your lack of foodstuff is that I'll bet you've got a wine cellar that's fully stocked. Am I right?

She was. I rolled my eyes. I can take a hint, Maya. You want the grand tour, so the grand tour you shall have.

Then get on with it cupcake, Maya grinned. I've got a doctor's appointment in about an hour, and we've got a party to plan too.

The sun beat down on Preacher's shoulders, high overhead already in the midmorning. Thirst plagued him. Hunger rubbed his belly against his spine with painfully throbbing pulsations. The heat above only served to underscore the misery that lie beneath his cracked skin.

He vaguely wondered at the oddly warm weather for so late in October. Then again, being inside the cocoon of Darkwater Bay these past two years had rendered his skin pale and sensitive to so much sunlight. It was like a mole emerging from darkness after years of seclusion underground.

The work wasn't what he expected either, and through his thirst and hunger-muddled thoughts it frustrated him. He toiled alone, absent the hostile strangers in the van with whom he'd met before leaving Downey, out in a field digging irrigation troughs from what he could surmise on his own. Farming after all, wasn't his field of expertise.

Another dead end. Another glaring failure in his quest to uncover what was really going on in the veiled world of the homeless. For a week and a half he'd been out here, baking under the Indian Summer sky, staring down the golden stalks of corn yet to be harvested, digging through rich, black soil, wondering how he'd ever figure anything out when nothing was what he once thought it was, or at the very least, suspected.

Even now, that he'd caved to the strong pull of common sense and followed the last possible lead, Preacher found himself wondering if he possessed even a shred of a clue.

A shadow loomed a moment before it merged with his, distorted in the muddy ditch. He lifted one hand and muttered the first phrase of the twenty-third Psalm. The lord is my shepherd, I shall not want …

Cut the crap, you fuckin' lunatic, a canvass-sheathed canteen smacked the back of Preacher's neck. I ain't comin' out here to water you so I can listen to more of your bullshit.

Preacher's fingers greedily grasped the flask. The heat beating down left him feeling flushed and burnt, his mouth dry, energy sapped by more than just the back-breaking work of shoveling mounds of heavy soil in the growing fingers of turned earth. He twisted the metal cap away from the neck and poured the icy liquid down his parched throat. He drained it, held it aloft from his lips waiting for the last precious drops to soothe a leathery tongue.

No, this was not what he signed on for.

And in the swift moments that followed, Preacher didn't question the resurgence of energy, the mental acuity that allowed him to plot how much time it would take to reach the end of this particular trough of muddy soil. He missed the sudden cessation of hunger pangs that usually gnawed at his ribs and twisted his belly into knots. Hell, he stopped noticing that his clothing bagged more than usual in this wretched disguise.

Instead, Preacher looked up at his minder in soft question. More?

The man's forehead glistened with a light sheen of sweat in the