Two for Flinching

By Todd Morgan

Two women have gone missing. Their only connection is me, Beason Camp.
Four years ago, my wife walked out on us, leaving me with our infant daughter to raise alone--or at least that is what everybody believed. Now my lover has disappeared and her husband has tasked me with the job of finding her. It is a case that will take me to old enemies, family friends, drug dealers and the Dixie Mafia.
The investigation reveals that everything I thought about my life is a lie and the violent conclusion will leave us all changed forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Todd Morgan
• Release date: Jan 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781939337467

Todd Morgan

Todd Morgan is an airline pilot living in northeast Alabama with his children, beautiful bride, Tammy,and her two dogs. He is a graduate of Delta State University and has lived in Mississippi, Tennessee, and Rhode Island. He started his flying career as a student (obviously) then a flight instructor before moving to the commuter airlines (those prop planes everybody hates) and now flies Boeing 737's across the states and a little international stuff. So if you ever hear a Captain Morgan on the PA, stop in and say hey. Or you can email at [e-mail].

Book preview

Chapter One

It’s Steven.

Figures, she said, a day late and a dollar short.

I looked again, the view distorted through the fish-eye lenses. Steven was banging loudly on the door. The door across the hall. Steven was a big guy, obviously in a rage, and I feared for whoever was on the other side of that door. I reached for the latch. I’m going out there.

You may want to put some pants on first.

I went to the chair, took my jeans and slid them on. Before opening the door (before committing myself) I looked through the peephole once more. The door had opened, a middle aged man stood with it still half closed. A middle aged woman was behind him, clutching a robe close to her as if it could somehow protect her. I angled my head and saw a hotel security guard hurrying down the hall.

Amber! Steven screamed.

The man held out his hands, imploring restraint, saying something I couldn’t hear. The security guard, a kid really, probably a student at the local college, stood uncertainly to the side. Steven yelled again, but all I could make out was, My wife—

The man stood back and Steven pushed the security guard away. He took two steps into the room, quickly turned, and slammed the door behind him. The kid said something that started with, Sir. Steven hit the door with his fist, sounding like a rifle shot in the once quiet hallway. He shook off the guard and stormed away, the kid trailing in his wake.

I went to the table next to the window and poured an inch of rum into the cheap plastic cup. The window looked over the front parking lot. Steven stomped out of the main entrance and got into the BMW he had left in a handicapped space. He drove through the lot to a Toyota Camry, turned his car around and backed into the Camry before driving away. I knocked back the rum.

He wrecked your car.

Son-of-a-bitch. Amber was on the king bed, leaning against the headboard, her muscular legs tucked under the cover up to her knees. That’s it, she said. I’ve had it.

I poured another shot.

I’m leaving him.

What are you going to do?

I’m divorcing him, Beason. I’ve put up with his shit for too long. He has been stepping out on me since we got married. I finally do the same and he can’t handle it.

I knocked back the rum.

She folded her arms beneath her bare breasts. We’re so upside down on the house, two mortgage payments and we can barely afford one. The restaurant is bleeding money. I can’t carry him any longer. I’m going to leave him to stew in his own juices.

Steven had pulled out of the lot and driven away. My Jeep was parked in the back, next to a dumpster, so I was safe. Probably.

Come on. Amber patted the bed next to her and gave me that devilish grin. We’ve got time for one for the road.

I shook my head in disgust. Disgust at myself. And peeled off the jeans and climbed into bed.

***

I slipped silently into the house, hit the button and winced as the garage door rattled down. Blondie came running, in that peculiar lopsided gait of hers and jumped up on me. I pushed her down. She jumped on me again. I shrugged her off and went to the front door, taking the leash from its hook. Her excitement went into overdrive. She had been cooped up for far too long, an outside dog trapped indoors with way too much time between proper walks. I opened the door and she bounded out. I followed her, holding the leash. It was late and there wasn’t going to be anybody out for her to bother and she deserved a good run. And it wasn’t as if I was going to be able to sleep.

Blondie ran down the front walk and turned left, afraid I was going to hook her with the leash. I walked behind her, easily following as she tore through the neighbor’s yard. I carried the leash because I knew she wouldn’t agree when the walk was over and would most likely have to drag her back to the house.

It was too cold for the leather jacket, but it was what I had, so I zipped it tight and made the best of it. The stars were out, a crescent moon, the night bright and alive and still. Blondie began barking, howling at either a cat or some other night creature. I whistled at her and she took off, eager to find new prey. The subdivision was fairly new, single level and two story brick homes, the shrubs and young trees hanging mysteriously in the dark. There was no sidewalk, so I had to stay in the gutter next to the curb. Headlights flared behind me, shooting my shadow onto the road.

The car stopped, the engine died and a door popped open and shut. I kept walking. I knew who it was, who it had to be. Beason Camp. I should’ve known.

I stopped. There was no avoiding it. Evening, Steven.

Steven’s arm was in a brace, from his hand halfway to his elbow. He wasn’t wearing the sling they gave him at the emergency room. Must have broken his hand punching that door. I’d once had a similar injury.

I should’ve known, he said again.

Known what?

Known that it was you.

That it was me out walking my dog?

That it was you fucking my wife.

I shook my head.

Where is she?

I don’t know.

He was a couple inches taller than me, six foot two, six foot three, and maybe thirty pounds bigger, two twenty, two thirty, much of it in his gut, but plenty in his chest and shoulders. He stepped closer. Even with the rum on my own breath, I could still smell the whisky coming from his. I want my wife.

Can’t help you, Steven.

He took a swing at me, a long, looping, drunken, punch with his good hand. I easily moved away, keeping my hands at my side. He threw another, this time with his injured hand. I should have let him connect, knowing the pain would drive him to his knees. I didn’t. He swung a few more times, charging after me. I kept moving back. I had an entire block behind me and then another.

Eventually, he gave up. Winded, he put his hands on his knees and swore between breaths. I could tell he was crying. Where is she? he sobbed.

I don’t know.

I’m not giving her up.

I don’t blame you.

Blondie had returned, sitting in the street. She was a lab mix, given to jumping on friends and strangers alike. Now, though, she just examined us with her head cocked to the side.

Go home, Steven.

I’m going to find her.

I hope so, I said, and when you do, you may want to consider seeing a counselor.

Fuck you, he said, breathing hard form the exertion or the tears, I couldn’t say. Beason Camp. Marriage expert.

Good night. I hooked the leash to Blondie and left him with his tears in the street.

I made sure Blondie had plenty of food and water and poured myself another shot. One for the road. I left my bomber jacket on the coat tree and climbed silently up the stairs. I stopped outside one of the closed doors, the door to the master bedroom. I don’t know how long I stood there, thinking yet not really thinking, vague memories of better times, before I opened the door across the hall and went into the tiny guest room.

Chapter Two

I was sitting at the table in the kitchen/dining room combo drinking coffee and reading the Chickasaw Falls Times when I heard activity upstairs. Shower running followed by blow drying. I had finished both sections, front page and sports—all fourteen pages of it—before she appeared on the stairs. Shoulder length brown hair, makeup artfully applied, dressed in a maroon sweater and a pair of Levis. Though I would never say it aloud, she was as pretty as her mother.

Morning, Uncle B.

Good morning, Erin. How did you sleep?

Ok. Had to stay up late to study for a test. She went to the cabinet, took out a to-go mug, filled it from the pot and dumped enough sugar into it to put a diabetic in a coma. I didn’t hear you come in.

It was pretty late.

Working on a case?

Something like that.

More noise from the second floor, hurried footsteps and Blondie arose from her spot at my feet and started wagging her tail. The boss of the house came down the stairs, jet black hair wild, olive complexion and beauty a model would die for. Hey, daddy.

Hey, baby. I stood, scooped her up in my arms and hugged her close. Have a good night?

Uh huh. She rubbed sleep from her eyes. Erin and me watched Alvin and the Chipmunks.

Again?

Yeah.

What do you want for breakfast?

Chocolate pudding.

We negotiated a little and finally settled on Fruit Loops. I wasn’t too sure it was a step up from pudding, but at least she would get some calcium.

No milk.

Part of the deal, Sarah. I poured the cereal and milk into her favorite princess bowl and gave her the Dora the Explorer spoon. It’s good for you.

She frowned. Can I watch a show?

Sure, honey. I went to the living room and turned on the television. It was already set to the Cartoon Network.

Erin said, Can you drop her at preschool? I need to get there early today, study some more for my anatomy test. Oh, and I got a hot date tonight.

Sure. I sat at the table across from my daughter. Hey, baby, I’ve got an idea.

What?

You want to go to school or would you like to cut and go with daddy? We can go to the gym and then you can go to daddy’s office.

She pursed her lips in deep thought. Sarah was old enough to start kindergarten in the fall, but she had a late birthday and I thought it would be better for her to wait. It would give her another year to grow, another year of maturity. I didn’t think it would matter much in elementary school, but it could be huge when she hit high school. Her mother hadn’t agreed, but my wife’s opinion was no longer a consideration.

Today is Peyton’s birthday. Her momma is bringing cupcakes.

Okay. You can go to work with daddy another day.

Sarah shook her head, her long curls flying. I can make her a pretty picture at your office and give it to her tomorrow.

Sounds like a plan.

Yep, she said proudly. Sounds like a plan.

***

I took Sarah into the gym and let her run around while I shot. I was never a very good shooter—at least on a basketball court. I couldn’t dribble very well, either. But I’d had some athletic talent and was a good rebounder and a fair defender and had started for a middling high school team my last two years. I shot ball now to loosen up, reaching that age where you had to warm up before you could stretch. Sarah had decided to kick the basketball up and down the hardwood court. I went through my ten minutes of ritual stretching before dropping Sarah in the YMCA day care.

I did my twenty minutes of penance on an elliptical machine, the resistance set at the maximum level. I followed that with a five minute cool down on the treadmill. The Y was fairly deserted and I was able to get my lifting done in thirty minutes. After another five working the lonely heavy bag in the corner, it was time for a quick shower. I collected Sarah from the nursery and she broke for the gym. I followed. It wasn’t as if I had anywhere I needed to be.

I stood under the basket in my jeans and sweatshirt, dribbling as she climbed the bleachers.

Beason, a voice called from the door, you still throwing up bricks?

Randall Rogers had been a teammate of mine, a year younger who had made the varsity as a freshman. The point guard, he could always shoot and dribble. Now, he was balding and coming to the gym to work off the twenty pounds he had somehow accumulated over the last ten years.

Hey, Randy, I said, some of us get better with age.

"Yeah, but can you still dunk?’

I shrugged.

He smiled. See ya.

Randy?

He turned, a hand on the door. Yeah?

I took two steps, jumped and threw it down one handed. I still got it.

Randall Rogers laughed all the way into the lobby.

***

Hello.

Beason? This is Eric Hendricks. You covered up?

I’ve got some time. What do you have?

A big one.

Injury or divorce?

Divorce. Can you handle it?

Sure.

We need to move fast on this. I’m going to send you a package right now.

Okay.

And Beason? There is a big payday on this one. Don’t fuck it up.

I’m on it.

***

I looked around my office. It was on the second floor of a closed sock factory. Sarah had fallen asleep on the couch on the far side of the large room. She had quit taking naps a year ago, but even she was not immune to the power of that couch. It snagged me on a regular basis. Aside from the computer, my desktop was empty.

I tapped the space bar to wake it up. I had to wait a few minutes for the email to pop up in my inbox. I opened it. Apparently, Melvin Jenks was stepping out on his wife, Cynthia. Cynthia suspected her husband was planning on meeting his mistress (probably the secretary) that very evening. Melvin Jenks. We had never met, though I had seen in his name in the newspaper. He was the president of a local bank. Hence, the big payday. My job was to find hard evidence of the affair.

I heard the outdoor stairs rattle. I didn’t have any appointments and walk-ins were rare in my business. As a matter of fact, business was rare lately. Maybe it was my lucky day. Maybe I was going to get two clients in a one hour period. My door opened and two men came in. Maybe it wasn’t going to be my lucky day.

The first guy was big, six feet or so with muscles bulging at his exposed neck the way they do on professional bodybuilders. The second guy, though, was the one who made my spidey sense tingle. Next to his partner, he looked almost tiny, five foot ten, a buck sixty, an unhealthy pale as if he had never seen the sun. He had a stillness about him, a calm readiness in his body language, hazel eyes that took in everything without moving. I opened the top drawer of my desk and found no help there. I didn’t carry my gun when Sarah was with me. Of course, they didn’t know that.

Beason Camp? The big guy came complete with a big head, dark, unruly hair, and a broad nose that was on the crooked side. The ugliness in his face went much deeper than the skin.

Yeah? I let my chair fall forward, the balls of my feet on the floor, ready to move. How can I help you?

He grinned, took two steps deeper into the room and swung his head around. Not near as subtle as his partner. He did a double take at the still form on the couch. The smile turned upside down. He looked at his partner and pulled out a cell phone. While he made the call, my eyes never left the smaller man. His didn’t leave mine, either.

Yeah, he’s here, the big guy said into the phone. Only problem is, the daughter is here, too. He listened for a moment, killed the call and shook his head at his partner. Be seeing ya, he said to me, turned and stomped out. His partner backed to the door, nodded once and left without a word.

The silence was overwhelming.

Daddy?

I blinked, wondering what the hell had just happened. What, baby?

Can we get some lunch?

***

My brother didn’t get back to me until late in the day. I had spent the afternoon working background on Melvin Jenks. Jenks was forty-seven years old, which seemed kind of young to me for a bank president. Of course, the number of bank presidents I knew of (counting Jenks) was a total of one. He had graduated from an appropriate Big East college with a masters in finance and had worked for a handful of banks before being hired as Vice President of Southeastern eight years ago. He had taken over the top spot less than a year earlier. Interesting. What power and prestige can do to a man and his morals. He and Cynthia Floyd had married twenty-three years ago in March, a spring wedding. They had two teenage daughters and an elementary age son, Melvin Jr. Amazing what you can get off the internet.

His Facebook page seemed to be regularly updated, where he ate dinner and the last movie he had seen. His sole had been excellent and the popcorn had been cold. Pity. He had an eight handicap and enjoyed hunting and fishing. There was a picture of him straddling the carcass of a nine point buck, grinning in his camouflage and hunter’s orange. He was a fairly large man, a little paunch creeping in, slowly going bald, his light brown hair combed over the receding hairline. He could probably get away with it for another year or two. There was a picture of his home, not really a mansion, but close, and I got a good sense of the big payday. There were no pictures of his wife and children. Indeed, his relationship status had been left blank, as if he had overlooked the entry. Yet, he had carefully listed his high school and college graduation, his old fraternity and his current social clubs and charity work.

***

What are you doing?

Working. You?

Laying on my beach in Tahiti.

Must be nice.

Uh huh. What’s up?

I was wondering if ya’ll could watch the princess tonight?

Hot date?

Yeah, right. Work.

I wish I could help you, but I’ve got a big project going and have to work late myself.

I thought things were slow.

Exactly. Which is why I can’t screw it up. The missus has to take Sonny to a wrestling meet in Birmingham tonight. What about Erin?

She does have a hot date.

You have any babysitters you can call?

Besides you?

He chuckled.

Parents these days are hesitant to leave their teenage daughters alone in the company of a stud such as myself.

With good reason. You try dad?

He has enough on his plate.

Ain’t that the truth. I’m sure he would do it.

I am, too. I’ll figure out something.

Oh hell.

Chapter Three

I picked up Jenks as he left work a few minutes after five. Banker’s hours. He walked out with a younger woman with long hair and a short skirt. Details were hard to make out, but she seemed to be attractive—from a distance. Thin, self-assured, confident in her heels. They gave each other a businesslike nod and climbed into their respective vehicles, hers a late model Honda, his a sporty Lexus. They pulled out of the lot, Jenks in the lead, and I pulled out of the gas station across the street.

There was no reason for them to expect a tail, but I still stayed three cars behind them. They were allegedly about to commit an illicit act and therefore might be a little on the suspicious side. Traffic was as bad as it got in Chickasaw Falls—which meant running a red light without looking might or might not be dangerous. Both sets of blinkers came on and I slowed, letting them turn into a Chinese takeout place. I drove past and stopped at a drugstore, watching them in the rearview. Jenks went inside while she remained in her car. They must have called ahead, because Jenks came out after only a couple of minutes, triumphantly carrying two plastic bags. The convoy set out again. I let them get ahead. I had a pretty good idea where they were going. In a town this small, their options were limited and even if I was wrong, I was confident it wouldn’t take a half hour to find them.

I caught up with them as they pulled into a hotel on the edge of town, next to the interstate. Jenks went into the lot while she parked in front of the lobby. I took the second entrance and circled the hotel. The Lexus was in the front row. I parked a good distance away that still left me with a good view. I took my digital camera from the passenger seat. I snapped a few wide shots to establish the setting, the car parked in a hotel lot. The Honda left the lobby and she left the car in the second row with plenty of spaces between them. I took a few shots of her. Jenks got out of his car with the takeout and met her on the walkway. I narrowed the focus and took a bunch of shots of them together. She opened the door and I was able to get them going in. I pulled out my cell, scrolled through the contacts and hit the number I needed.

Chickasaw Falls Inn.

Tom?

This is Billy. Tom is off tonight.

The line of work I was in, it paid to be on good terms with the hotel clerks in town.

Hey, Billy. This is Beason Camp.

Hey, Bees. You need a room tonight?

I winced, checking the backseat to see if Sarah had somehow heard the comment, might somehow know what it implied. Luckily, she still had the headphones on, watching Alvin and the Chipmunks on her portable DVD player.

No, not tonight. I was calling about the woman you just checked in.

Mrs. Driver? She’s a nice lady.

She a frequent customer?

"Once a