Secret 77

By Ty Treadwell

"Your girlfriend is dead. You have 24 hours before your wife finds out."

Former crime beat reporter Clay Burton has no idea what the cryptic note means, or who sent it. What worries him most is the reference to his wife Lindsey, a once-vibrant artist now rendered an invalid after a tragic fall. In Lindsey’s fragile condition, even a mean-spirited practical joke like this would be too much for her to handle.

Clay dismisses the note as a prank until more envelopes arrive. Now the sender has switched to coded messages, bizarre riddles, and even gruesome “mementos” of the alleged girlfriend. Using his reporter’s skills and instincts, Clay deciphers the clues and follows their trail to an abandoned lake house where he makes a shocking discovery. The mysterious notes aren’t a practical joke after all; they’re signposts leading to a grisly crime scene.

When the stream of clues and messages continues, each more clever and devious than the last, Clay learns that his faceless tormentor is just getting started and that Lindsey might be his ultimate target. Is it all a twisted game of psychological torture, or is Clay the pawn in some dark, complex scheme whose endgame can’t even be imagined?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ty Treadwell
• Release date: May 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301412723

Ty Treadwell

Ty Treadwell's short stories have appeared in Writer's Journal, Unreality, Over My Dead Body, and many other magazines. He has also sold over 150 non-fiction articles. His awards include a gold medal in the essay category at the 2008 GAMMA Awards and first prize in the 2007 Travel Writing Contest sponsored by Writer’s Journal. He once taught writing classes for Clayton State University, and he now teaches an online writing class that attracts students from across the country.Treadwell is also co-author of the book Last Suppers; Famous Final Meals from Death Row. He is currently at work on a variety of both fiction and non-fiction projects.

Book preview

Secret 77

By Ty Treadwell

Secret 77

By Ty Treadwell

Copyright Ty Treadwell

Smashwords Edition.

All rights reserved. No material from this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written consent from the author.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Many people deserve thanks for offering their wisdom and experience during the writing of this book. Tess Mallory helped with plot pacing and character development, and she continues to be the best cheerleader an author could hope for. Dr. Uwe Stender gave sage advice on how to tell a great story and made excellent suggestions during the early editing phase. Carlos Campos, former reporter for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, gave me a much-needed crash course in the daily life of a newspaperman. And my wife Boriana Treadwell, a longtime veteran of CNN, shared her insight on both print and broadcast journalism and also spent countless hours serving as a proofreader, editor, and sounding board. Any inaccuracies are the sole fault of the author.

Chapter 1

Secret 1: Your girlfriend is dead. You have 24 hours before your wife finds out.

Clay Burton frowned at the note. Most fan mail came to his publisher’s office, but every once in a while a determined reader tracked down his home address. The letters came in two varieties; plain old gushing praise, or someone claiming to have the perfect idea for Clay’s next book. This note didn’t fit either category, and Clay had no idea what it meant. He did have a wife but he sure as hell didn’t have a girlfriend, alive or dead.

Normally a piece of mail like this would warrant about five seconds of Clay’s time. Then it would be trashed and forgotten along with the Land’s End catalogues and the credit card offers and the flyers from lawn services and gutter cleaners, all the junk that piled up and piled up because Clay just didn’t have time to deal with it. Something about this letter bothered him, though. He got up from the kitchen table, went to the recycling bin in the garage, and rummaged around until he found another note that came in the mail a few days earlier.

He went back to the table and laid the two letters side by side. Both were printed on a computer in plain old Times New Roman, but the paper was unusual. Light green and slightly glossy. Not stationary grade but not common printer paper, either. Computer-printed labels on the envelopes, too. Just Clay’s information, no return address. Both letters were postmarked from Holly Springs. Clay lived in Dunfield, on the outer fringe of Atlanta. Holly Springs was ten miles north.

The letter that came a few days ago had one lonely sentence: Can you solve the crime before you reach secret 77? Just the blurb from the cover of Clay’s book Secret 7, but with an extra digit added to the title. How original. If it was supposed to be a joke, the person had wasted both their time and a stamp because Clay didn’t get it. He had thrown that note away without even noticing the unusual paper or the missing return address. And now he apparently had a subscription to the clever little messages. Wonderful.

The notes and envelopes went on top of the throw-away pile. Clay was halfway down the four-inch stack of mail but the rest would have to wait. He had pulled out everything that looked important—a few bills, something from his publisher, and a padded mailer addressed to his wife—and was just killing time with the rest of the stuff while he finished his coffee. Now it was nine o’clock, time to wake Lindsey. The beginning of another glorious day.

He took his mug to the sink and looked outside. The back yard was already marshy from five straight days of rain, and it was drizzling again that morning. The damp weather and cooler temperatures hadn’t been so awful at first; August in Atlanta was normally so sweltering that everything in town seemed to sag and drip like objects in a Dali painting. But people started grumbling when the bad weather stretched from a few days to a few weeks, and no one did it louder than Clay’s wife Lindsey, a lifelong sun worshipper.

Clay imagined how she would swear when she woke up and saw this. Her bedroom faced the back yard, so that’s what she stared at for most of the day. A nice long rectangle of grass with an herb garden at one end and a mass of English ivy that had crept over from the neighbor’s yard at the other end. A wooded area ran behind it all, filled with tall pine trees that sealed the yard off better than any fence. Lots of green and brown. A pretty nice view on most days. The only thing ruining it was the lone maple tree at the edge of the yard with the tree house clutched in its limbs. Clay wanted to tear the damn thing down after Lindsey’s accident. The tree, the tree house, all of it. Chop it down, burn it, and bury the ashes. It seemed natural, like prying a nail out of a floorboard after someone stepped on it. But Lindsey refused to let him touch it, and in her current state there was no way Clay could argue with her.

He left the unopened mail on the table and took the two anonymous notes and the rest of the garbage out to the recycling bin. It had actually been a few weeks since his last real fan letter. That one said his book Secret 7 was really super, and since his mini-mysteries were a lot more fun than both Jumble and Sudoku, it would be even more super if Clay could get the newspaper to run one every day.

The note had made him smile. The concept of fan mail was still a novelty, but he enjoyed it. During all those years at the Journal-Constitution, all he got was the occasional angry rant from a friend or family member of the lowlifes he wrote about for the metro section. He still remembered the one that said You didn’t write nothing nice about my son. You only talked about how he shot that other boy in the leg. Now people will think he’s no good. It came from the mother of a teenage gang member who was now serving a long stretch in prison, so if anybody thought the kid was no good, it was obviously the judge.

Back inside, Clay paused by the table and straightened the stack of mail. This was the time of morning when the stall tactics began. Fidgeting around in the kitchen, checking the fridge and cupboards to see what they were out of, rewashing dishes that were already clean. Anything to give him a few extra minutes before he woke Lindsey.

His daily routine reminded him of the guy from Greek mythology whose punishment in the afterlife was to endlessly roll a boulder up a hill only to have it roll back down again just before he reached the top. What was his name? Tantalus? Sisyphus? He always planned to look it up when he had the time and energy. The problem was, he never had the time and energy. As much as Clay loved Lindsey, her new condition exhausted him. He ended each day battered, drained, and filled with an ache that clung to his bones like wet cement. He still had the willpower to keep on fighting, he just didn’t have the strength. He felt like the guy at the bar who’s been drinking all night and now he’s so jacked-up on alcohol and adrenaline that he’s ready to kick the shit out of the first person who looks at him funny, no matter how big they are, but he’s so plastered he can’t even get off his bar stool without falling over.

Another minute crept by as sad raindrops inched their way down the kitchen windows. Clay finally fetched Lindsey’s pills and a glass of water, went down the hallway to her bedroom, and opened the door. After he started sleeping in the guest room, Lindsey had converted their room into a combination bedroom, den, and art studio. The curtains were closed, but even in the muddy half-light the level of clutter was astounding. Clay’s former side of the bed was heaped with magazines, his old nightstand littered with brushes and tubes of paint. Clothes and CDs all over the floor, pyramids of books on top of the dresser, piles of miscellaneous junk in the corners. As if Lindsey’s life had exploded and she’d never bothered to clear away the wreckage.

Clay sidestepped the items on the floor as he circled the bed, but Lindsey’s easel blocked his path and he had to pick it up and move it out of the way. It held a painting of the maple tree from the back yard, signed with the simple LL that Lindsey adopted as her signature back when she was still Lindsey Lake, a wild teenager just learning how to sling her emotions onto a canvas.

She was sound asleep, oblivious to the disaster area surrounding her. The sheets were kicked down to the end of the bed and Lindsey lay on her side with her long limbs flung in all directions, honey-colored hair fanned over the pillow in curly tangles. She wore cotton shorts and a tank top, her face tucked into her shoulder the way a bird might sleep. Her left shoulder, the one with the angel tattoo on the back of it. The design was artsy, ornate, lots of delicate curves and curlicues, like something from a 19th-century Christmas card. Clay tickled the angel’s feet. Lindsey moaned softly and raised her head, eyelids fluttering.

Morning, Clay said. How are the conditions at Lindsey Lake? It was a tired old joke from their dating years, but Clay still pulled it out of the closet from time to time.

Lindsey rolled over, stretched, then touched both sides of her head like she was testing fruit at the supermarket. So far Lindsey Lake is calm and peaceful. Very little turbulence. Clay bent down to kiss her and she gave him a drowsy smile. Thanks. My nights still suck, but I like your wake-up calls.

Another rough one?

Same as usual.

I really thought you’d sleep better once you had the bed to yourself.

I told you, my headache doesn’t care how big the bed is.

The morning conversation always started the same way. Then Clay would tell Lindsey that if she took her pill at night she might sleep better, and Lindsey would repeat for the hundredth time that if she could only feel decent for a few hours each day, she wanted it to be during the afternoon when she could actually enjoy it. Sixteen years of great discussions about books, art, film, politics, culture, everything under the sun, and now their daily dialogue had been reduced to this. Every conversation began with Lindsey’s health, or worked its way around to it, or sometimes focused on it completely. The interaction had become automatic, like chatter between two robots with limited programming. How’s your head? Not too bad. Do you need to lie down? Maybe later. Can I get you anything? I don’t know. Maybe some tea? Let me think about it.

Clay shook one of the fat yellow pills out of the bottle. Lindsey chased it down with water while Clay opened the curtains, then she rose from bed and pulled on the old yellow robe she always wore until she got dressed, which sometimes didn’t happen until mid-afternoon if it happened at all. Clay had grown to hate the robe the same way he hated the huge pill he fed his wife each morning. The color yellow had become synonymous with sickness and defeat. Clay wished he could stuff the damn robe in the trash and replace it with one that was pink, or purple, or neon green. Anything but yellow.

Lindsey vanished into the bathroom as Clay headed back to the kitchen, their morning routine moving along like clockwork. By the time Lindsey got to the breakfast nook, her special cup of instant coffee was ready and waiting; one spoon of regular and one spoon of decaf, mixed with milk instead of water, and served in an oversized cup that could double as a soup bowl.

I need to leave soon, Clay said. I’ve got that interview with Paul’s friend at ten o’clock.

She can’t come here?

She lives downtown. We’re meeting halfway, at Centennial Park.

Lindsey sipped her coffee then rolled her head on her neck, working out the kinks. Even first thing in the morning, with no makeup on and her long hair frantically snarled, she still took Clay’s breath away. The perfect cheekbones, the aristocratic nose, the green eyes with the upward slant that made her look a little catlike, a little exotic. It was a face that grabbed the attention of both men and women, who seemed equally fascinated by her. Some mistook her for a celebrity—an actress, a model, someone they’d seen in a magazine ad or a TV commercial—although no one could say for certain who she looked like. Others didn’t know and didn’t care if she was famous; they just knew she was hot. Thirty-six years old, and even teenage boys nudged each other when Lindsey walked by.

I wish you’d stop it with the interviews, she said. It’s pointless. I told you that.

We need the help, and you know it.

Sweetie, I can do the housework. I never leave, so what else am I supposed to do all day?

You need to rest and I need to write. Besides, I think you’ll like this girl. Paul said she’s an artist too. You’ll probably have a lot in common.

I don’t need a babysitter. Lindsey slid a catalogue off the top of the mail stack and started thumbing through it.

That big envelope is for you. Did you order more art supplies?

It’s probably my sable brushes. I was about to call the company and chew somebody’s head off. I paid for those damn things a month ago.

Then I’m glad they made it. And by the way, we’re not hiring a babysitter. We’re hiring a housekeeper.

Whatever. We don’t need her. Lindsey’s face was calm as she sipped more coffee and gazed out at the yard. The headache obviously wasn’t gnawing at her yet. She had once compared it to a slow-moving hangover that didn’t hit her until she’d been on her feet for an hour or so. Chasing her pill with a little caffeine right after she got out of bed seemed to delay the process, although—ironically—coffee was one of the many things that Lindsey couldn’t handle in large doses anymore.

Just give her a chance, okay? Paul says she’s really nice, and Maggie loves her to death.

"Wait, this girl is a friend of Maggie’s? She’s a teenager?"

No, she’s older than Maggie. In her twenties, I think. She used to live down the street from Paul. They hired her to give Maggie private art lessons.

"Thank god. A babysitter is bad enough, but a teenage babysitter…"

How many times do I have to clarify this?

"Okay, fine, she’s a housekeeper. But when you talk to her about the cleaning—when you talk to anybody about the cleaning—make sure they know to stay out of my room."

Why can’t you let somebody else take care of that mess?

"Because it’s my mess, and I’ll deal with it. Now get out of here or you’ll be late for your interview. She took another sip of coffee then frowned. Wait a minute. You’re meeting at the park? You’ll get soaked."

Maybe the rain’ll stop by the time I get down there. Anyway, I told her to meet me at the snack shop. If the weather stays bad, we can sit inside.

Take an umbrella anyway. Lindsey rose on shaky legs and headed back toward the bedroom. I’m gonna lie down again. Come say goodbye before you leave.

Clay rinsed out Lindsey’s cup, gathered his wallet and cell phone from the guest bedroom, took a raincoat and umbrella from the hall closet, then stuck his head in Lindsey’s room. She was propped up in bed with her journal open on her lap, tapping a pen against her teeth. One of her doctors had recommended it as part of her therapy. Write down how she felt each morning, compare the days, look for patterns, anything that might aid the recovery process.

Drive slow, she said. The roads are probably a mess.

I will. And I’ll be back as soon as I can. The interview shouldn’t take long, then I’ll run over to CNN and say hello to Paul.

They make him work on Saturdays? Yuck.

It’s temporary. He’s finishing up a project. And since I’m meeting this girl right across the street, he wants me to stop by and tell him how it went.

Well, give him a big sloppy kiss from me.

Nah, his beard tickles too much.

Then come over here and give me one.

Clay did, but it was the dry, perfunctory kiss that had become routine over the past few months along with so many other things. Striving for more passion would only frustrate them both. They had only had sex one time since the accident—on their wedding anniversary—and the experience was so awkward that they hadn’t tried again since.

Clay was halfway through the bedroom door when Lindsey called out to him. Hey, wait a minute. I just realized something. You still get together with Paul once in a while, and I’m here by myself every Sunday when you visit Sam. Why do you worry about leaving me alone during the week?

I can’t keep arguing about this, Lindsey. Seriously, I can’t.

She waved the question away, like wiping a silly doodle off a foggy bathroom mirror. I’m sorry. Go on, get out of here. You’re gonna be late.

As he passed through the kitchen on his way to the garage, Clay noticed the padded envelope addressed to Lindsey lying on the table beneath the rest of the mail. He almost grabbed it and took it back to her room, but then he stopped. He had told her it was there and she hadn’t even glanced at it. If she suddenly needed her art supplies, she knew where to find them. Later that night, he would wonder why he hadn’t looked at the envelope more closely. He would ask himself how he had overlooked the missing return address, and the fact that the computer-printed address label matched the ones on the two anonymous letters. He would be surprised that he hadn’t noticed the strange, soft feel of the object inside the envelope, or the fact that part of it was wet when the rest of the mail was completely dry.

Lindsey was right about the babysitter, although Clay would never admit that to her. Getting help with the cooking and cleaning would be great, but what Clay really needed was time to research his next book. Not just an hour or two at a stretch, either. He needed a good half day, maybe a full day sometimes, to get the information he needed from his sources downtown. In Lindsey’s current condition, she just couldn’t be alone for that length of time.

Clay tossed his cell phone onto the passenger seat as he pulled out of the garage. The sky was a dreary gray, the rain a forlorn drizzle. He was already rehearsing the interview in his head as he backed down the driveway. Should he offer more money this time? Play the sympathy card by telling Lindsey’s whole story? Or should he talk less about the accident so he wouldn’t scare this girl off like all the others?

Near the end of the driveway, Clay glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a flash of movement. An arm, a hand, part of a face, the mouth open in surprise. He swore and stomped on the brakes. Tires squealed and his seatbelt bit into his shoulder. Still swearing, Clay slammed the shift knob into PARK and twisted around in his seat. Through the rain-smeared back window he saw a person in a hooded raincoat, either black or navy blue, standing in the street behind the Audi’s bumper.

Clay’s heart was pounding. He had nearly run the person over. He was going too fast and he should’ve checked the mirror sooner, but why the hell was one of his neighbors walking around in the rain? And who was it? Frank Gladstone from next door sometimes walked his dog in bad weather, but Frank was middle-aged, stocky, and moved like glue pouring out of a jar. If it had been Frank in that dark rain coat, the man would be mashed under the Audi’s rear tire right now.

Clay’s phone started ringing from the passenger side floorboard; it had tumbled down there when he slammed on the brakes. He unhooked his seat belt then leaned over and scrabbled for the phone, checking the caller ID. Damn it. He had been collecting voicemails from his agent for three days now and still hadn’t called her back.

Hi, Marie.

Hi, Clay. You all right? You sound a little out of breath.

No, I’m fine. Just dropped my phone, that’s all.

Well…I hate to bother you over the weekend, but I wasn’t sure if you got my messages.

I know…I mean, I did. I did get them. Hang on a minute. Clay sat up straight again, looking for the person he had nearly flattened. There was no one behind the car. He scanned the street both ways. Nobody. No, wait. A dark blur near the side of the road, three houses down. Was it the same person? If so, they were moving fast. Running? But why?

Clay? Everything okay?

He backed into the street, facing the direction he had seen the blur. He flicked the wipers up to high. Nothing at all now. Just raindrops filling the air with static.

Clay? Are you there?

Yeah, sorry about that. I was trying to…no, forget it, it’s not important. He pressed the gas, checked both sides of the street as he drove. And I’m sorry I haven’t called you back. Things are still crazy around here.

How’s the research going? Any progress?

I wish I could say yes, but I can’t. Dealing with Lindsey is a full-time job, and I’ve got all the housework on top of that.

Marie started to say something then paused and made a noise instead, that dire little mmm sound people make when they don’t know how to respond to bad news. Then another pause while she chose her next words. Listen…I know you’re in a tough situation, but the clock is ticking on this project. The people at Callisto are getting anxious.

"I know, Marie, I know. But even when I do have time to work, all I can do from home is surf the web. Most of the stuff on the Internet is garbage, and even the good stories are too sketchy to use. I can’t put together another book this way."

Then what’s the solution?

I need to spend some time downtown. Visit my friends at the precinct, camp out at the library for a while…either that or convince Paul to sneak me into CNN so I can use their resources. But I can’t do any of that until I find someone to watch Lindsey. I told you about the eggs, right?

"You did. And I know you’re stressed out, so I hate to feel like I’m jumping all over you. But if you can get this sequel done, it’ll fix a lot of your problems. I know money’s tight right now. Life’ll be a lot easier with another advance in the bank and bigger royalty checks down the road. Easier for you and for Lindsey."

"Believe me, I’d love to spend all my time working on another book instead of taking care of a sick wife. Really, I would. But the fact that I can say that—hell, the fact that I can even think it—makes me feel like the biggest jerk in the world."

Come on, Clay. Don’t beat yourself up. Seriously. You don’t deserve it. Just do what you can and keep me updated, okay?

Clay promised he would then hung up, looking around for the running figure one last time as he pulled out of the subdivision. It would be twelve more hours before he connected the person with the two anonymous notes or the bizarre contents of the padded envelope.

Chapter 2

Centennial Olympic Park was a huge chunk of green in the center of downtown Atlanta, a grassy oasis surrounded by concrete and skyscrapers on all sides. Paul’s friend Gina was already there when Clay arrived, standing outside the snack shop. The rain had passed but all the benches were wet, so they decided to walk the path that circled the park’s perimeter.

They began at the Fountain of Rings, where hundreds of underground water jets formed the five interlocking circles of the Olympic logo. In good weather, the fountain swarmed with kids in bathing suits. At the moment it was empty except for three pigeons fighting over a soggy scrap of hamburger bun. At the south end, CNN Center and the Omni Hotel rose up like glass mountains at the end of a long, flat plain. The Journal-Constitution’s offices were right next door. During his days as a reporter, Clay had retreated to the park whenever he needed a break from the chaos of the newsroom.

So how did you and Paul meet? Gina asked as they made their way down the cement path. Were you stuck in the research department, too?

No, I was a cops reporter.

"A what reporter?"

On TV they call it working the crime beat, but in real life we call ourselves cops reporters.

Well, that’s pretty cool. And you wrote that book too, right?

Yes, unfortunately.

Gina giggled. Why do you say that? You’re a bona fide author. That’s awesome.

You obviously haven’t read it. It’s not exactly Pulitzer Prize material.

"But it’s still cool. You know the only thing I ever got published? A fan letter about the Backstreet Boys in Teen America magazine."

Gina was nearly a foot shorter than Clay, so she had to tilt her head all the way back to smile up at him. She had a pleasant face—big blue eyes, a snub of a nose, reddish-brown hair cut in a trendy shag—but her body was incredible. Not the rock-hard abs and long legs of a bikini model from a beer commercial, but the type of soft, womanly body Clay first saw as a child when he found a box of Playboys from the 1950s in his grandfather’s basement. Gina was Marilyn Monroe or Jayne Mansfield tucked inside skintight jeans and a T-shirt with a smiling cartoon Buddha on the front. Clay dragged his eyes away from what lay beneath that Buddha and looked forward again, his face hot and flushed.

If Gina noticed what had just happened, she pretended not to. So, Paul said you need help around the house because your wife is sick. It’s nothing serious, is it?

Lindsey’s not sick. She’s recovering from an accident.

Oh, wow. What happened?

Clay always dreaded the question just like he dreaded the long explanation that followed it. Crazy as it sounds, she fell off a ladder.

Really? Like one of those ladders you keep around the house to change a light bulb or something?

"No, not exactly. We’ve got a tree house in our back yard—we didn’t build it, it was there when we bought the house. It’s really fancy. It has a real roof, and a window, and a good, solid floor. The people who lived there before us built it for their son, and we decided to leave it up in case