Preacher's Blood

By Greg Jeffrey

30 days ago, Sara Preacher disappeared. There were no clues or witnesses. Nobody saw anything. Nobody heard anything. Nobody knew anything.

15 days ago, the police investigation went cold.

5 days ago, Gavin Preacher was short on hope and long on desperation.

Today, that long-shot comes in. A woman tells him his sister is alive and in danger. But before he can get more information the woman commits suicide, leaving Gavin with no answers and more questions.

Tomorrow, Gavin finds himself in a race against the clock to find out who the strange woman was and what her connection is to Sara.

In order to find Sara, Gavin must abandon the new life he built. Leave behind his need to help others and return to a deadly set of skills and burning rage cultivated in the army and fighting ring. To move forward he must go back and, in the process, hope he doesn't lose himself to the beast he buried,

If he doesn't find her in time she will undergo an experimental protocol that will ruin her body and mind, leaving her suicidal. And if he does find her in time it just might be his own sanity that is lost.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greg Jeffrey
• Release date: Jun 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301288496

Greg Jeffrey

Hi guys, I am a 46 year old Social Worker from Jersey who always wanted to be a writer. I loved making up stories. All through school I always wanted to write a novel but was always too afraid. But I finally got around to it, and here I am on this site with my first of what I hope to be many stories. I just want to tell a story that at least a few people can say they really enjoyed. If that happens at any point then I will feel great about it.

Book preview

FOREWARD

No story is written in a vacuum. No writer does it all by himself. It takes people to get the job done. A whole lot full of them. Some know they were involved. Some have no clue at all that they contributed. All of these people, no matter what part they played, are important and deserve to be recognized. Their presence was necessary because without every single one of them this story, or any story for that matter, would not be complete. Some small part might be missing and, while maybe not noticeable to everyone else, is a burning beacon to the writer. This story came together with the help of a wonderful group of people I am privileged to call family and friends. First, my best friend Joe Young, aka Grimjack. Joe was the one who got the odd texts and calls at all kinds of strange times for help with various plot points, questions, and other ideas like names and places. Joe, thanks for letting me use your brain whenever I needed it. More importantly, thanks for being my brother. Love ya, Man. Then there are my friends at Brazicki’s Tavern where I frequently sought refuge to think and work. Tom and Jules, I can’t thank you guys enough for putting up with the eccentricities of a wannabe writer and giving me a great place to work, hang out, and make good friends that are now part of my family. The kids, KK, Ooooo G, and Fafa, thanks for always being helpful and asking questions and encouraging me all the time. That kind of confidence and support is hard to come by. Thank you. Love you guys. Last, and far from least, I need to talk about my good friend and extremely talented author, Ann Simko. We met years ago on an online forum and quickly became critique partners and friends. We talked offline all the time. About writing. About life. About everything. Without her this story probably would not have been written. She encouraged me and made me believe in this thing even when I wasn’t sure about it. Many, many times I was ready to throw in the towel and just give up. Annie wouldn’t let me. At times I think she believed in this story, and me, more than I believed in it and myself. She saw things. She saw a story worth telling. She refused to let me let this thing go. And for that, Annie, I will always and forever be thankful. You meant so much to me and to this story that these few words are not nearly enough to show my thanks. Love ya, kid! I would also like to thank Joe Simmons for the wonderful cover art and for formatting this manuscript and saving me from really embarrassing myself. As always any mistakes you find are mine and mine alone.

To my Mom, Dad, Sister and Nephew. This is for you guys.

Chapter One

Gavin Preacher knew he was being followed. Again. Somewhere in the broad wash of humanity heading toward the exit doors he felt eyes watching him, focused and intent, but not threatening or malicious.

Preacher stepped out of the surging crowd, picked a spot near a men’s bathroom, and looked out across the cluster of fans. During a gap in the flow of a few seconds, on the eastern side of the building by a closed souvenir stand, he glimpsed a woman craning her neck and looking out across the floor. She wore a light topcoat, had long hair, and model perfect posture. Definitely looking for someone.

Preacher couldn’t prove it but something told him she was there for him. An instinct. A gut feeling. He learned to trust those over the years.

He cut across the mass in a diagonal line toward the cart. When he was fifty feet away a gangly kid with greasy hair crashed into his side. His eyes were bloodshot and it didn’t look like there was much of anything going on inside his head.

Sorry man, the kid said.

No problem.

But Preacher knew better. He knew it was a problem. No doubt about it. A bump with less punch than a mosquito bite and a verbal exchange of four words did it.

The woman was gone, disappeared back into the crowd.

Knowing there was no chance of catching up with her, Preacher left the arena. As the crowd poured out into the fog and humidity, some headed for the parking lot around the corner. But some weren’t ready to call it a night. They gathered along the wall in groups and discussed the night of mixed martial arts fights. Some sounded happy while others sounded pissed off and angry.

Xavier Randall, in the main event, successfully defended his heavyweight title. His opponent was a slow, fat, untrained, and vastly inexperienced former dock worker. The fight lasted two minutes and ten seconds and amounted to no more than an extended training session. The champ barely broke a sweat, parading around the ring and taunting his opponent, the referee, and a few young fans in the front row. It was a slaughter, but still entertaining for most fans.

Preacher didn’t care one way or the other about the results. His mind wandered elsewhere, to more important stuff.

He worked his way through the tangle of fans and stood near the end of the building. He was bored, sweating, and thirsty. He wanted to be far away from the fans. Their opinions and analysis meant a whole lot of nothing to him.

He ran his hands through his hair and lit a Marlboro. He took a long, slow drag before exhaling a cloud of gray smoke. A chilly mist started falling. It made him think of Sara, his younger sister. She loved the rain. She disappeared almost thirty days ago without a trace. But to Preacher it felt like a lifetime.

It also made him think of his father. Frank hated the rain, among other things. He remembered hearing as a kid how he would never amount to much of anything, the claims often backed up physically. The bruises faded over time. The words stayed with him.

Preach, whatcha doin man? Why do you keep doing this to yourself? This shit ain’t healthy.

The voice belonged to Max, a just north of forty former Marine, and the closest thing Preacher had to a friend these days.

They pounded fists and started walking away from the arena. Preacher took another drag off the cigarette , then handed it over to Max.

Max took a drag, exhaled. Smoke wafted. Mist fell harder.

Preacher shrugged his shoulders. Can’t seem to stay away. Stupid, I guess. But tonight was different.

How?

I saw her.

Who?

Her, Max.

Oh. You mean your mysterious stalker.

I saw her. She was here, looking for me.

Really? One woman in a crowd of people looking for someone and you are sure it was you. That’s great. Couldn’t have been she was looking for a friend or husband or child, right?

No. I know it sounds crazy. But I felt it.

Very scientific.

I also told you days ago it was a woman.

Fifty-fifty shot.

That’s good enough for me.

And what did this fatal attraction look like?

I didn’t get a great look. She had long hair, wore a topcoat, and had perfect posture. Like a model.

Perfect. We can put out a BOLO for Project Runway contestants.

I’m serious, Max.

Damnit, Preach, so am I. You’re grasping at straws here. I know you miss her. She’s my friend and I miss her too. But you need to prepare yourself for the worst here.

Preacher pounded the street sign in front of him with the heel of his right hand, causing it to shake violently and hum like a tuning fork. No. Don’t you say that. Don’t you even think it. She can’t be gone. She can’t. She’s the only Preacher I consider family. She has to be alive.

You can’t keep fooling yourself. It’s been thirty days, Preach, thirty days. Hell, after the first forty-eight hours the odds reduce to almost zero.

No. She’s alive. I feel it. But where the hell is she? I looked and looked. I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m growing long on hope and short on desperation.

I know you need something to believe in. But you can’t go pinning your hopes on some mysterious woman who you think has been following you around for a few days.

I can’t say it any plainer. She’s alive. And I’m going to find her.

Fine. Maybe she is alive. She could be anywhere. Maybe she ran off with some guy or she’s laying in a hospital bed somewhere. Maybe she finally went off to find your mother.

She would have told me.

"Maybe it was a spur of the moment thing. Maybe she didn’t want you to know because she knows how you feel about the situation.

I keep trying but can’t find anything. No clues or witnesses. Maybe Frank was right. Maybe he was always right, about everything. Should have been me who disappeared. He would have been happier.

Cut the shit. Don’t you fucking dare. Spare me the psycho-babble abusive daddy feel sorry for yourself bullshit. This isn’t about Frank. He’s wrong. You know it and I know it. So don’t go using that as an excuse to feel sorry for yourself.

Should’ve been me, Max.

Well it wasn’t. So deal with it. Nothing you can do about that. But what you can do is live.

Don’t know how anymore.

Then you better learn, and right quick. Cause what you’re doing now ain’t getting it done. Your eyes are bloodshot and you got bags under em big enough to be luggage. You hardly sleep and spend all of your free time staring at them yellow squares of paper on your bedroom wall or listening to the police scanner. If she’s alive she’s going to need her big brother, not this hot mess you’ve become. You owe it to her.

Then I need to find out who that woman is and why she’s been following me.

Max shook his head. You didn’t hear a damn word I just said.

Preacher didn’t say anything.

Max stopped on the next corner for a traffic light. Have it your way. This is where I get off. Got a special lady coming over. One of them low-carb diet bitches. She likes to call me Colonel. Says it soils her dainties.

Dainties?

She’s from England. Very cosmopolitan. Drinks tea with the extended pinky and calls the toilet the water closet.

Very foggy, too.

I don’t want to move there. I just want to sleep with their women.

Preacher smiled. You’re a good man, Max. I don’t care what they say about you.

Me either.

Say hi to your friend for me.

I’m not going home to talk. Only talking you’ll hear is when she calls the taxi to go home.

You won’t even call the taxi?

Division of labor. Women’s lib and all. Really taking off across the pond, I hear. I pay and she calls.

Right. Dainties, soiled, Colonel, taxi, got it.

They pounded fists and Max crossed the street and disappeared around the next corner.

When Preacher started walking toward home he felt it again. The woman with the perfect posture was close by.

Watching.

Waiting.

He turned and took a look behind him but didn’t see anyone.

Chapter Two

Monday Morning, seven thirty-seven. Preacher stretched his legs, cracked his neck, and rubbed his eyes. The bed was still made and he sipped on mug number three of black coffee and smoked his fifth cigarette. Behind him the police scanner buzzed about an armed robbery and the computer was on with a chat room box open and the cursor flashing. He sipped some coffee and told the person on the other end he understood. A few seconds later, the conversation ended politely, with promises to keep in touch. The woman on the other end disappeared. But Preacher left the computer on.

He downed the last of the gritty liquid, rinsed the mug out, and took a shower. He turned the handle all the way to the left, rested his palms on the tiled wall in front of him, and let the boiling sheets of water loosen his tight muscles and relax him.

He thought about the woman at the arena. His watcher that stood like a model. He still felt it had something to do with Sara. Wishful thinking, maybe. Then, as his blood started to flow and he felt more awake, he thought about what Max said. It made sense, no matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise. He let the water fall over his face and in his eyes, decided Max had to be right, and let the possibility swirl down the drain with the last of the soapy water.

It was seven forty-nine.

He wrapped a big towel around his waist and went to get dressed, where he was greeted by Mulder, a golden brown Rhodesian ridgeback with a severe case of separation anxiety and a head the size of a basketball. Preacher rescued him from the pound a few days before he was to be put to sleep to make room for new arrivals.

Mulder’s gargantuan head popped out of the closet, a green t-shirt hanging out of his mouth, and matching khakis draped across his broad back. He stared at Preacher with big, bright eyes and chuffed and wagged his tail for a job well done.

Preacher dropped to one knee and rubbed the top of his head. Today’s Monday. You know I don’t wear green on Monday.

Mulder whimpered and dropped his tail between his legs.

Go on, It’s Monday. Would you like it if I waited until tomorrow to give you steak?

Mulder groaned and disappeared back into the closet. This time he came out with the proper Monday combo: navy blue cargo pants and a matching polo shirt.

Good boy, Preacher said. He sat down and rubbed and scratched Mulder’s belly for a few minutes before getting dressed.

When he was done he filled Muder’s bowl with the promised steak and put fresh water in another bowl, adding a few cubes to keep it cool. Then he went back to the bedroom.

The bedroom was nothing special. It had a big bed with lots of pillows, a computer, police scanner, Bowflex, a bookshelf, and a flat screen television mounted on one wall. One of the other walls had a cork bulletin board with photos of Preacher in trunks and in the octagon set to fight. A few of them were action shots. There were a few newspaper articles there with his name and highlights of some of his fights.

He tried to use the Bowflex everyday. Lately, that meant once a week. Since it was Monday he figured he had time to keep up the trend. He felt some of his muscle tone loosening up and even the beginnings of a bulge in his stomach.

Then came the wall to the right of the bed, an eight by eight painted rectangle covered with hundreds of yellow squares of paper. Each square had a different piece of information scribbled on it in a different color ink. There were names, dates, places, and numbers. Some of the notes were connected by solid black lines. Some had red lines. Some had no lines at all. Everything there had something to do with Sara.

Every morning before going to work he stood there and stared at it. He used to attack it like a puzzle, trying to reason out the info and put it in some kind of order to form a picture that led to Sara. But he hadn’t added anything in ten days, about the same time the police investigation started going cold. It slipped into routine as much as anything.

Routine became important for Preacher. It was all there was. All he had left, what got him through the day. He moved from one part of the routine to the next, not thinking, caring, or considering anything other than the next bullet point on the list.

Today was different.

Against his better judgment, and Max’s advice, he decided to add a note, a clear break in the routine, a new bullet point on the list. He opened a fresh pack of notes, scribbled on the top one in black ink, and put it on the wall. It said woman in topcoat. Long hair. Model posture. Searching.

He stood and stared at the new addition for a few seconds. Then he grabbed his jacket and left for work, bags under his eyes, a rumble in his stomach, and his temples pounding.

#

Tyler Jenkins woke up with no intention of reporting to work. Not today, tomorrow, or ever again. It wasn’t a spur of the moment decision, flight of fancy, or just something to do. It was decided the second he’d made the worst decision of his life. There would be no memo, no e-mail, and no phone call. He just wasn’t going to show up.

It’s not that he didn’t like the job, he did. It paid very well and had benefits, too. He didn’t have a better job lined up and didn’t hit the lottery. He was doing it because he had no choice or viable options. He couldn’t undo his mistake and couldn’t make it right. It was too late for that. What was done was done. The girl was gone, maybe even dead for all he knew.

Tyler Jenkins intended to run, disappear, hope a little, and pray a lot.

He knew McKittrick would search for him, and would find him. That’s what McKittrick did. Tyler Jenkins was as sure as a person could be about that.

But he still wasn’t going to make it easy. No way, not a chance. He wasn’t going to be a spectator at his own death. If McKittrick wanted him, he was going to have to work to do it.

Jenkins had no family and only a few friends, so he knew he could leave easily, without worries or complications. He could go anywhere he wanted and money was no concern.

He sat on the edge of his bed and thumbed through a travel magazine. He stopped and read an article about Saint Petersburg. There were a few pictures of Red Square and the Tolstoy ballet. It was perfect. He smiled, dropped the magazine in the garbage can next to the bed, and got his jacket.

So with a wallet full of bills, a pack of cigarettes, a Zippo, and a passport, Tyler Jenkins closed the door to his apartment and left.

Next stop, Russia.

Chapter Three

The Hudson County Assistance Program (HCAP) is a not-for-profit agency that assists city residents with housing, medical referrals and drug, alcohol and gambling counseling. The whole operation occupies a corner of the fourth floor of the new County Plaza building.

Preacher lounged in an office chair with his fingers locked behind his head and his legs stretched under the desk. He looked up at a poorly executed drop ceiling the color of wet copy paper. Many of the panels were cut wrong and most of them were stained and on the verge of crumbling from years of unchecked water damage.

The floors weren’t any better. He had sent numerous memos to building management about how the tiles would loosen, bubble, and explode to expose the concrete underneath.

The memos went unanswered and the floors got worse.

Monday mornings were boring. No real work got done by anyone. He tried the local newspaper’s crossword, a pedestrian version of the one in the Times. Sometimes it helped pass the day. Today it didn’t work.

He dumped the paper and got a cup of French Vanilla coffee. He added a few drops of liquid creamer and took it back to his desk.

On the way he bumped into one of the clerks, a younger woman with bright eyes and an electric smile.

How are you, Jeanine, Preacher said.

Jeanine flashed her winning smile. Fine, Gavin. How about you? You check out the fights last night?

"I’m