Heroes of Old

By Todd Crusan

John Larocque, the most successful homicide detective in Phoenix PD history, has an uncanny knack for knowing when he is being lied to. His latest case, the high-profile rape and murder of a teenage girl by her father, “Big Ben” Benton, a prominent business man with a flawless reputation, seems like a slam dunk. There is an orgy of evidence, enough that no jury in the world could possibly acquit. And yet, John knows absolutely that Benton is innocent. Putting his reputation on the line, John promises Benton’s frail wife that he will find the real murderer.

That’s when John’s world begins to collapse. The more he digs, the more the evidence impossibly points to Benton. His aging father, Jack, is deteriorating into a delusional paranoia, claiming that he has witnessed a mysterious old friend gunned down in the street and that he is the next target. Haunted by his fruitless search for the Benton girl’s killer and bordering on madness himself, John resigns in disgrace when he discovers his father’s body at the bottom of his basement stairs, an apparent victim of a tragic accident.

Following clues left behind by his dead father, John and Jackie, his reclusive daughter, discover a hidden vault in Jack’s basement containing a library of ancient manuscripts of unprecedented importance. Reading Jack’s translation of one of the manuscripts, they become immersed in the rich historical account of the rescue of the Forgotten Ones, an event left out of modern history books. The date is March 1314, seven years after the fall of the powerful Knights Templar and ten years after the precipitating event known as the Outrage of Anagni, when an army of mercenaries hired by King Philip IV of France attacked Pope Boniface VIII. They discover that the real reason for the attack on Boniface and the destruction of the Templars is vastly different than history records, and directly relates to secrets of the Larocque family line that must be kept hidden at all cost.

But they are being watched. Hired to steal the library of manuscripts, Slade Lassiter is now hunting John, who possesses the only means to enter the vault. A ruthless killer with a dark past, Slade also holds the key to solving the Benton murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Todd Crusan
• Release date: Sep 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301160075

Todd Crusan

Todd Crusan is a software engineer by day, living and working in the Phoenix area. By night he is writing his second novel, "The Blood of Heroes", the sequel to the wildly successful "Heroes of Old".He is an avid reader of fantasy and science fiction, Angry Birds fanatic, and a beer aficionado.

Book preview

By Todd Crusan

Copyright 2013 by Todd Crusan, LLC

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, are coincidental.

V1.0_r2

Cover art by Lea Koechle.

Manuscript formatted by Little Reed, LLC.

Dedication

To my beautiful wife Jennifer, without whom I would have given up long ago.

Acknowledgments

Writing Heroes of Old was by far the most difficult undertaking I have ever attempted. I could never have completed it without the understanding and support of my dear wife and four wonderful daughters who endured the numerous hours I spent in isolation on the computer. It was only through the feedback and sometimes harsh criticism of my many test readers, some of whom tortuously persevered through the earliest versions, that Heroes of Old became the story you hold in your hands today. Thanks to all of you, in no particular order: Glenna, Bob, Darold, multiple Chris’s and Matts, Lisa, Lise, Jaime, Michele and her book club, Robbie, Nana, Mom, Lynn, Scott, Jason, Kelly, and Dell.

Special thanks to Austin for the idea of the secret room behind the bed, Bill of Greenleaf Literary Services for his encouragement and expert advice, and Alex and Robbie of Little Reed, LLC whose entrepreneurial spirit inspired my own.

To those who I may have missed mentioning, my sincere apologies and a warm thank you.

Table of Contents

Title

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1: Fifteen Years Ago

Chapter 2: The Promise

Chapter 3: Nicole Rodriguez

Chapter 4: Abel

Chapter 5: Mission Accomplished

Chapter 6: Descent into Madness

Chapter 7: The Library

Chapter 8: Abel’s Last Stand

Chapter 9: Promises Kept

Chapter 10: The Other

Chapter 11: A Hunch

Chapter 12: Baiting the Hook

Chapter 13: The Outrage of Anagni

Chapter 14: The Definition of Hero

Chapter 15: Sarah

Chapter 16: The First Date

Chapter 17: I Can Free You

Chapter 18: The Key

Chapter 19: The Secret Passage

Chapter 20: Time to Prepare

Chapter 21: Proof

Chapter 22: Edward’s Journal

Chapter 23: A Fancy Sword

Chapter 24: For a Time Such as This

Chapter 25: A Lullaby

Chapter 26: The Most Beautiful Woman in France

Chapter 27: Shadow

Chapter 28: Going Hunting

Chapter 29: A Fencing Lesson

Chapter 30: On the Road to Belleu

Chapter 31: A Hero of Old

Chapter 32: Gifts from God

Chapter 33: More Than a Match

Chapter 34: A Kindness

Chapter 35: Teach Me

Chapter 36: A Magic Sword

Chapter 37: Old Enemies

Chapter 38: Heroic Deeds

Chapter 39: A Bloody Profession

Chapter 40: On the Road to Senlis

Chapter 41: Trust

Chapter 42: The Royal Advisor

Chapter 43: Stories

Chapter 44: The Blood of Heroes

Chapter 45: Talents

Chapter 46: War Drums

Chapter 47: A Demon

Chapter 48: Time to Go

Chapter 49: The Road to Crouy

Chapter 50: No Other Way

Chapter 51: My Fault

Chapter 52: The Jawbone of an Ass

Chapter 53: The Tunnel

Chapter 54: Kicking a Hornet’s Nest

Chapter 55: The Bloodlust

Chapter 56: Matters are Much Worse

Chapter 57: Stolen Documents

Chapter 58: No Way Out

Chapter 59: Stand Tall

Chapter 60: A Matter of Time

Chapter 61: Challenge Accepted

Chapter 62: Surrender

Chapter 63: Resolve of Steel

Chapter 64: Like the Heroes of Old

Chapter 65: One Choice

Chapter 66: The Beginning of the End

Chapter 67: You Lose

Chapter 68: I Can Explain

Chapter 69: Happy Endings

Chapter 70: An Invitation

Chapter 71: A Reward

Chapter 72: Slade Lassiter

Chapter 73: Heroic Actions

Chapter 74: Discovered Talents

Chapter 75: A Cop Trick

Chapter 76: A Collector

Chapter 77: White Knights

Chapter 78: Answers

Chapter 79: A New Man

Chapter 80: Acceptance

Chapter 81: The Watcher

Chapter 82: Releasing Slade

About the Author

Chapter 1 of The Blood of Heroes

Chapter 1: Fifteen Years Ago

Jack Larocque marveled at the ancient book in his white-gloved hands. The caramel colored leather binding was soft and pliable, as if it were made only yesterday. A single dark, dime-sized stain near the lower-right corner marred its otherwise pristine condition. It had been meticulously cared for.

He carefully parted its pages. The lettering was irregularly spaced, definitely not the work of a professional scribe. Running a finger over the first few lines on the page, he was astonished to find it written in Langue d'oïl, a medieval dialect of Old French he knew fluently.

Jack looked up when Abel ducked through the vault’s narrow doorway carrying a cardboard box. Abel set the box down and faced Jack with a look of extreme disappointment.

What do you think you’re doing?

I just wanted a peek, Jack stammered in embarrassment.

Out of the question. We talked about this, Jack. Abel donned a pair of white cotton gloves and took the book from Jack’s hands. He reverently closed it and carefully put it back in its place in the cabinet. This isn’t an antique book fair. Your job is to preserve and protect.

But . . .

No buts, Professor. You’re not a fool. Surely you must have guessed at the Library’s importance. Why else would I have insisted on the extra expense to turn your old fallout shelter into the Library’s new home? To keep it hidden, that’s why.

And why must we keep it hidden?

To protect it, of course. If you get the urge to read one of these books, you must find the fortitude to utterly squash that urge. You cannot protect the Library unless you keep its existence absolutely secret. You must tell no one about it. Not your family, not your best friend, not your priest. If you give in to your curiosity and start reading these books, you risk damaging them and worse, you risk learning something that you won’t be able to keep secret. If that happens, the game is up.

The game?

You’re a history professor, Jack. You know very well that the history taught in schools is only true until the next archeological discovery. The recorded past is spotty at best. The farther back you go, the spottier it gets. Take Jacques de Molay, for example. He was the twenty-third and last Grand Master of the Templars. The written record of his life tells us much about the man, but history records absolutely nothing about where he was or what he did for over two-thirds of his life. We don’t even know when he was born with any degree of certainty.

What has that got to do with the Library?

The Library is the greatest collection of ancient writings ever assembled. Every book in here is completely unknown to historians. It fills gaps in the historical record since the time of Christ onward. It is the true history, not one fabricated by those in power to placate the masses and control the world’s wealth.

Then doesn’t it belong in a museum where it can be researched?

Absolutely not. The lives of too many people are at stake.

Whose lives?

I’m sorry, but I can’t say.

My life?

If you keep the Library’s existence a secret, no.

Whose then?

I can’t say any more than I have already.

Abel exited the vault and impatiently waited in the narrow tunnel outside the heavy steel door. Jack reluctantly joined him. He still had so many questions, but the look on Abel’s face told him the discussion was over.

After Abel pushed the vault door shut and verified the electronic locks had engaged, Jack led the way up and out of the subterranean chamber beneath his home. In his kitchen a few moments later, with the alarm armed and the deadbolts on the basement door locked, Abel wore a sad look of finality on his face as he dropped the keys in Jack’s open hand.

Goodbye, Jack.

It was the way he said it, not the actual words, that gave Jack the impression he would not see Abel again for a very long time.

But I still have so many questions.

I’ve taught you all you need to know. There will be no need to contact me. When the time comes, I will contact you. Until then, keep your nose out of those books.

Chapter 2: The Promise

Detective John Larocque took his place beside his partner, Detective Howard Simpson, who crashed the brass knocker down four times. The afternoon sun torched his back like a flamethrower. It was the hottest August he could remember, certainly one for the record books: a blistering hundred-and-nineteen degrees in the shade with a stifling forty percent humidity.

Wiping the stinging sweat from his eyes, John turned and took in the incredible view of Central Phoenix from halfway up Camelback Mountain. Beneath a cloudless azure sky, waves of shimmering heat distorted the perfect grid of streets below. The whirling winds of a dust devil lifted plastic grocery bags high into the air as it crawled across a parking lot in the distance.

John tugged at his shirt collar in a futile attempt to get some air flowing around his neck as he turned back to the door. Seemingly unaffected by the blistering heat, Howard impatiently knocked five more times.

With a wash of refrigerated air, the door gaped open revealing the daunting presence of Benjamin Big Ben Benton. At six-eight, wearing his trademark silver-toed ostrich boots and massive gold-trimmed belt buckle, his head nearly scraped the doorframe of his expansive home.

Detectives. You have some news about my daughter?

If we could have a moment of your time, Howard began.

As usual, John let Howard do the talking while he studied Benton.

You’ve already pried into every aspect of my personal life and dragged my good name through the dirt. What else could you possibly want?

Howard Simpson, an imposing black man with a face resembling the infamous running back of the same name, was tall himself at just over six feet. Yet to John he looked like a child standing before the giant sized Benton.

We would like you to come downtown. We have some new leads we are having trouble making sense of. We are very close to knowing what happened to your daughter, Mr. Benton.

A glimmer of hope appeared on Benton’s face as his wife’s gaunt form slid under his arm. Her frail, withered body looked to be only half his height. The breast cancer treatments were taking a toll.

Are you arresting me? Benton asked.

Not at all, Mr. Benton.

Benton eyed the two detectives warily then peered down at his wife.

Your lawyer may be present if you wish, Howard added, hamming it up perfectly.

The lawyer bluff was John’s idea. Benton’s lawyer, known in certain circles as the Shark, was the last person they wanted present during Benton’s questioning.

I don’t think there is any need for that, Benton said after a long pause.

After Benton reassured his wife, Howard ushered him into the passenger seat of the unmarked police car while John climbed behind the wheel, started the engine, and cranked up the AC.

Once underway, Howard flipped open his cell and sent a quick text message, the signal for more detectives and a CSI team to descend on the Benton estate to execute their search warrant. With Benton out of the picture for a few hours, they hoped to find some useful evidence before Mrs. Benton thought to call in the Shark. If the Shark showed up, he would surely find a way to squash the search as he had already done twice before.

Twenty-five minutes later, Howard sat across a metal table from Benton in an interrogation room. John watched through a pane of one-way glass from the adjacent room, their voices sounding tinny through the small speaker. He concentrated on Benton as Howard began by pulling out an 8x10 photo from a manila folder.

Howard slid the photo across the table. Tell us about this.

Benton barely glanced at it. "It’s a building. So what. Don’t tell me you dragged me all the way down here to show me that."

You don’t recognize the building?

Benton nervously licked his lips, examining the photo closer. His eyes went wide, like a twelve-year-old whose parents had just discovered his stash of cigarettes in a sock drawer.

Good thing we aren’t playing poker, John mused. This guy would lose his shirt. He can’t bluff worth shit.

I’ve never seen it before. What does this have to do with Melissa?

Your car dealership pays the lease for a small apartment in this building.

You’re mistaken.

Even through the glass, John felt the heat of Benton’s lie on his clean-shaven cheeks.

Your signature was on the check and the lease agreement.

I sign hundreds of things every day. Look, I thought you brought me here to show me new evidence about my daughter’s disappearance, not my company’s real estate holdings. If you’re finished, I have business elsewhere. Benton stood and strode toward the door.

We could ask your wife, Mr. Benton. Maybe she knows about the apartment.

Benton slowly returned to the table, a new fierceness in his eyes as he pointed at Howard with his index finger. I warn you, do not drag my wife into this.

Tell us about the apartment, Ben.

Benton paused, thinking over his answer as he ran his fingers through his thick dark hair. We use it for out of town clients. Now, can we get back to this new evidence?

"The apartment is the new evidence. We found Melissa’s fingerprints there."

What?

Melissa’s fingerprints, Ben. Howard stabbed a finger at the photo. "In your apartment."

That’s impossible.

It seems my partner is a bit dyslexic. He tried calling your home phone yesterday but transposed the last two digits. An elderly gentleman answered. Following a hunch, my partner asked if he had gotten any unusual calls the night your daughter disappeared. His hunches can be quite spooky, you see. There was a short voice mail on the man’s phone, the voice of a sobbing young female. Whoever she was, she realized she had dialed the wrong number, uttered a cry, and then hung up. We believe it was Melissa trying to call home.

John watched Benton flop down in the chair, genuinely incredulous.

She tried to call?

From the phone in your apartment. A few hours ago we found Melissa’s prints on the phone. Preliminary analysis shows that hair found in the apartment matches samples you gave us from Melissa’s hairbrush.

That can’t be. She’s never been there.

Is that where you took Melissa? Howard asked.

No! I didn’t take her anywhere! No one knows about that apartment except . . .

Who, Mr. Benton? Who else has been to your apartment? We found hair from a second female as well. Your mistress, perhaps?

Benton’s enormous frame seemed to deflate.

My secretary.

Nicole Rodriguez? Your secretary at the dealership?

Yes. It’s her apartment.

You were having an affair with her?

It’s not like that. You’ve got it all wrong.

You are having an affair with your twenty-one year-old secretary while your wife, a former municipal judge, is undergoing treatments for breast cancer?

I am not having an affair and I had nothing to do with my daughter’s disappearance, Benton said, looking down at his hands.

The coolness of Benton’s answer sent a chill down John’s spine. He was hiding something about his secretary but knew nothing about his daughter.

A uniformed officer entered the interrogation room, handing Howard a brown envelope and a hand written note before exiting. Howard read the note, his smile growing wider.

Anything you want to tell me before we talk about what we found at your house?

That’s what this is about? You bastards brought me down here so you could search my home while my wife was there alone?

Sorry for the deception, but it was a legal search. And fruitful. We found hair inside your BMW matching Melissa’s hair.

You jackass, she’s my daughter! She’s been in that car a hundred times!

In the trunk?

Benton stiffened as Howard opened the envelope and pulled out another photo. Howard examined it for a moment before tossing it on the table in front of Benton.

What about this?

John saw a photo of what looked like a pair of stained, pale green panties.

We found these in a Hefty bag in the trunk of your car. Your prints are all over the bag.

Benton’s jaw dropped and a small gasp escaped his throat at the sight of his daughter’s blood-smeared undergarments.

We will be running DNA on the blood and semen stains. We already know it’s the same blood type as Melissa’s. I have a hunch the semen will come back a match for your DNA.

No, it can’t. I didn’t do it. You have to believe me!

The icy truth of his words felt like a wave of arctic seawater breaking over John. We’re barking up the wrong tree, he realized with a shiver. Benton is as innocent as a newborn lamb.

Why’d you do it Ben?

Benton went silent.

You took Melissa to your apartment. Sex with your wife was nonexistent in her condition. Sex with your secretary wasn’t raising your flag like it once was, so you grabbed your pretty little Miss Teen Arizona, and tried to have your way with her.

No.

She tried to call for help from the phone in the apartment, but in her panic, she fat-fingered the number. You came up behind her and hung up the phone.

No.

Howard was on his feet behind Benton, his mouth close to Benton’s ear.

You couldn’t let her tell Mommy what you tried to do to her.

Benton shut down, becoming as unresponsive as a zombie.

Where is Nicole? Curiously, she disappeared the same night as your daughter. Did you kill her, too?

Benton the zombie sat in silence, emotionlessly staring at the photo of his daughter’s underwear.

Howard pulled a sheet of paper from the manila folder and slid it across the table. I have a copy of your bank records. You withdrew ten thousand dollars from your bank account the day Nicole disappeared. Was she blackmailing you, Ben? Did she see what you did to Melissa?

The zombie didn’t even twitch.

Did she help you? Is that why you’re protecting her? The two of you wanted to have a little three-way action with your daughter and then, when it all flew apart, she helped you dump Melissa’s body? Tell me about the money, Mr. Benton.

Ever so slightly, Benton stirred. When he spoke, just his lips moved, as if the muscles in his face had turned to stone.

Leave Nicole alone.

Not a chance. I will expose every dirty little secret between you two.

It’s not what you think.

Then, tell me the truth, Ben. Enlighten me.

Benton sat perfectly still, staring straight ahead.

What did you do to your daughter, Ben? Did you rape her in the same bed where you fucked your mistress?

Frustrated, Howard hauled Benton to his feet by his shirt, backing him into a corner. He was almost limp in his hands. The blood had drained from Ben’s face, leaving him grossly pale.

With emotionless eyes, Benton mumbled, I never touched Melissa. I love her.

You raped her! You raped her and then you killed her. Then you threw her into the trunk of your car and dumped her body. Howard punctuated each verb with a shake of Benton, trying to get a response, but it was like shaking a giant-sized rag doll.

How could you do that to your own daughter, Ben? Your own flesh and blood?

Something in Benton snapped, life returning to his body in a rush. He stood to his full height and looked down at the shorter Howard, removing the detective’s hands from his shirt. I want my lawyer, he snarled.

There it was, the four magic words. Interview over, John said out loud.

Too late for that, Howard continued undeterred. Tell me where you dumped Melissa’s body.

Benton crossed his arms over his chest and held Howard’s stare, his lips clamped shut. This only infuriated Howard. He slammed his open palm on the wall next to Benton’s ear.

I’m talking to you, asshole! Where’s Melissa’s body? Where did you throw your daughter’s body after you raped her?

John saw Howard’s hand curling into a fist and reacted instantly. Racing into the interrogation room, he caught Howard’s arm by the elbow just as he was about to throw a punch. The interview is over, Howard.

Howard composed himself as two uniformed officers rushed into the room. Book him, he ordered. Rape and murder one.

The officers cuffed Benton’s hands behind his back and helped him into the chair as John pulled Howard from the room. They were met by Chief Morales and the impeccably dressed Shark.

We’re booking your client for the rape and murder of his daughter, Howard said.

Without a body? the Shark smirked. He turned to the Chief. May I have some time alone with my client before you process him?

Of course, the Chief said before showing him into the interrogation room with Ben. Then he turned to Howard and John. What kind of stunt are you two pulling? I got a personal call from that bastard. He said you were harassing Mrs. Benton and had dragged her husband down here for questioning.

We got him Chief, Howard said. He did it. The son-of-a-bitch was having an affair with his secretary at that apartment. That’s where he took Melissa. He’s guilty. We found all the evidence we need. When the DNA comes back a match, we won’t need the body.

John shook his head in silence.

Chief Morales turned to him. You disagree?

Benton was completely surprised by what we showed him. He’d never seen any of it before. Something doesn’t add up.

For Christ’s sake, John! Howard exploded. Were you even watching? He did it. He nearly admitted as much.

He admitted nothing.

What the hell is wrong with you? You saw his face. He’s guilty.

I need some fresh air, John said, leaving Howard to explain things to the Chief.

He walked in a daze, not caring where he was going as he mulled over what had just happened. His truth-sense affirmed Benton had told the truth. The evidence, however, suggested just the opposite. Had his ability gone sour after all these years?

A small throat-clearing sound to his left broke John out of his reverie. He turned to find Mrs. Benton standing quietly near the wall. She wore an elegant white dress that did little to mask the frailness of her thin frame. Her sunken eyes were red and watery. She looked barely able to stand. John politely helped her sit on a wooden bench then sat beside her.

Thank you, Detective.

We arrested your husband, he said, not knowing what else to say.

He didn’t do it, she replied. You have the wrong man. Her voice was strong, despite her condition.

We have a mountain of evidence to the contrary.

You found the apartment?

You know about your husband’s affair with Nicole Rodriguez?

I am no fool, Detective. It is not what it seems.

We know Nicole was in the apartment. We know she disappeared the same night as your daughter. Your husband withdrew a sizable amount from your joint account. She is somehow involved in Melissa’s disappearance.

Despite what you think you know, I assure you it is not what it seems. She spoke slowly and confidently.

Then her calm exterior crumbled, tears rolling down her cheeks. John fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. He quietly waited as she composed herself.

You are wrong about Ben. He is a good man. He did not harm our daughter.

The evidence tells a different story.

My husband was with Nicole that night but neither of them had anything to do Melissa’s disappearance.

Where is Nicole?

That’s why I came to see you, Detective, to ask that you keep her out of this.

Mrs. Benton, I understand how badly an affair would damage your husband’s reputation, but if you are hiding Nicole to avoid a scandal, you only are harming yourselves.

No, Detective, she shot back, it is you who does not understand. You couldn’t possibly. That’s the problem.

Help me understand, Mrs. Benton.

I cannot. Bringing Nicole into this would cause more harm than her silence. I promise you, if I thought for one moment that she was involved with Melissa’s disappearance, I would bring her to you myself.

John put a hand under her elbow and an arm around her waist as she stood.

Nicole was not involved. My husband did not harm our daughter, she said simply.

The absolute truth of her words stung his face like dry ice. He had only one choice.

Although your husband lied about Nicole, I know he is innocent regarding Melissa. I can’t explain how I know, but let it suffice to say I am utterly convinced. I promise you that I will do everything I can to prove his innocence.

Mrs. Benton studied him then accepted his promise with a nod. And Melissa?

I will find her, he said, before turning away.

All is not what it seems, Detective. In time, you will understand.

Chapter 3: Nicole Rodriguez

In the seven months following Benjamin Benton’s arrest John did indeed come to understand everything there was to know about Nicole Rodriguez and her involvement with the Bentons.

Some painstaking, old-fashioned detective work revealed that she had taken a Greyhound bus to Show Low, a small town in the Arizona White Mountains, where she worked under an assumed name as a housekeeper at a bed and breakfast. She refused to talk at first, claiming that she had never heard of the Bentons, but John persisted, finally resorting to threats of jail time if she failed to cooperate. She reluctantly agreed to an interview but only if he promised not to expose her.

I can’t make that promise, he had told her, unless, of course, you are able to convince me that you had nothing to do with Melissa’s disappearance.

Nicole Rodriguez, John discovered, was the daughter of Alberto Rodriguez. Lazy Al, as he was known in his TV commercials, owned an appliance store in a middle class suburb of Los Angeles. His twenty-one year-old daughter had gotten involved with Julio, the owner of BFT’s, an LA gentleman’s club where she worked as a stripper. Julio was a mean drunk and very possessive of his women. He considered Nicole his property and treated her as such. Lazy Al finally shipped his daughter out of LA after Julio had nearly killed her for running away from him after one of his drinking binges.

Ben Benton, who had known Lazy Al since college, was kind enough to help give his daughter a new start away from her abuser by setting her up in an apartment and giving her a job at his dealership in Phoenix. He also paid for the abortion of the child sired by Julio, the last remnant of her old life. Nicole feared that if Julio found out where she was living, he would come to reclaim his property and she would be lucky to live through it, she told John. She broke into a violent fit of sobbing when she tried to imagine what Julio would do to her if he found out about the abortion.

As for why she left Phoenix, Nicole explained that she was so grateful for what Ben Benton had done for her she had tried to repay him with the only thing she had, her body. The night before Melissa’s disappearance, Nicole invited Ben to the apartment and seduced him. No one will know, she told Ben. Ben, racked by guilt over that one adulterous night, confessed his sin to his wife. It was Mrs. Benton’s idea to give Nicole the money to start over somewhere else. Nicole couldn’t go back to LA, so the Bentons gave her ten thousand in cash and put her on the first bus out of town.

Nicole had heard about Melissa Benton’s disappearance several days later on the news, but knew nothing more. According to her, during the two-hour period in which Melissa Benton disappeared, Ben had driven her to the bus station. She was overwhelmed by his generous gift and caught the first bus out of town, not wishing to do any more harm.

Every word Nicole said was cold with the truth.

Clearing Nicole’s name, however, did nothing whatsoever to help Ben Benton. The bus station’s security video confirmed Nicole’s story, but Benton was nowhere to be seen. His only alibi for his whereabouts that night was Nicole, who steadfastly refused to testify in his defense.

Her testimony wouldn’t have mattered anyway. The evidence against Benton was overwhelming. A witness had come forward stating that he saw a tall man matching Benton’s description deposit a body in the trunk of a car in the apartment’s parking lot. Though he didn’t get the license plate number, he stated it was the same color and model as Benton’s BMW. It was the DNA analysis, however, that drove the final nail in Benton’s coffin. The blood and hair from the trunk of his BMW were an exact match for Melissa’s. The blood on the panties was hers as well. An hour after the DNA of the semen stain came back a match for Benton, he was formally charged with the rape and murder of his daughter. Even without finding Melissa’s body, the case had gone to trial and was now nearing the end of its first month.

John sat at his desk in the nearly empty squad room poring over the open Benton file in front of him. He paused for a moment and rubbed his tired eyes, glancing at his watch that read 5:30 AM. His last minute desperate search for a clue, any clue, that would shed doubt on Benton’s guilt had been fruitless. A witness saw him where he couldn’t have been. His seminal DNA had been found where it was impossible to be. That left only two possibilities.

One: Ben Benton was the victim of the finest frame job in the history of forensic science, complete with hair, fingerprints, DNA evidence, and witnesses, all without the slightest hint that it was planted. Worse yet, there was no motive to frame him. Ben Benton’s background and finances were squeaky clean. Other than his one-night stand with Nicole, a fact that would never go public, the man was an absolute saint.

Unless Ben had an identical twin, identical down to his finger prints and DNA, the second possibility was the more likely answer: Benjamin Benton raped and murdered his own daughter. This meant John’s strange psychic ability that told him when people were lying had gone sour. After thirty years of police work, it had utterly failed him.

And if it failed me this time, how can I be sure it hasn’t steered me wrong in the past? How many innocent people have I put in prison? How will I face Mrs. Benton?

John took a sip from the coffee mug on his desk. The room temperature coffee tasted like it had been filtered through a dirty sock, nearly turning his stomach. A sudden buzzing in his sport jacket’s breast pocket made him jump, spilling a bit of the stale coffee on the open file.

I hate these damn things, he muttered, pulling his cell from his pocket.

The caller ID showed a number he didn’t recognize. Sliding the phone open with his thumb, he took the call. Detective Larocque.

John! I’m so glad I got hold of you.

Dad?

I tried your home phone but nobody answered. There was a frightened edge to his father’s voice.

Jackie’s probably still asleep. You’re not calling from home. Where are you?

I’m at a pay phone.

What the hell is going on, Dad? You sound frightened.

I need you. I need you to come here as fast as you can.

What’s happened? Are you hurt?

No, no, I’m fine.

Then what is it, Dad?

I’d rather not say over the phone.

John let out a frustrated sigh. Dad, I’ve been up all night and I’m tired. Can it wait?

No, it most certainly cannot. I saw someone murdered this morning.

Call 911, Dad, not me.

You’re a homicide detective, aren’t you? I saw a homicide.

Hold on. I’ll get a black and white over there.

No! No police. I can’t be seen with the police. You must come alone.

Dad, what are you talking about?

This has to be off the record.

Dad, I’m not in the mood for games.

This isn’t a game! It’s real, John.

All right, all right, calm down. I was just heading out anyway.

Thanks, Son. I’ll be at the house.

Great. This is all I need right now, John said as put his phone back in his pocket.

Chapter 4: Abel

Less than an hour later, John stood on the sidewalk two blocks from his father’s North Phoenix home. He crossed his arms across his chest as he humored his seventy-five year-old father, impatiently watching him walk in circles in the middle of the street and looking every bit like he had gone mad as a hatter.

Dad, get out of the street before you get run over.

This is where it happened. Right here, his father pointed to a spot on the asphalt.

Where what happened?

I saw a man shot in the chest, right where I’m standing.

John looked both ways before joining his father in the empty residential street. Well, I don’t see any blood. Are you sure this is the spot?

Absolutely. I was out on my morning walk. I was standing right over there. A man came from that direction and began to cross the street right here.

Did you recognize who it was?

He hesitated before answering. His name is Abel. He’s an old friend of sorts. I haven’t seen him in fifteen years. It was odd. He looked injured.

Injured how?

He walked with a limp and had one hand wrapped in what looked like a yellow kitchen towel. It was soaked in blood. I got the feeling he had been hurt or tortured.

Tortured? Jesus, Dad, are you listening to yourself?

As crazy as he sounded, John’s ability confirmed his father was telling the truth.

You have to believe me. He started across the street toward me when a red car screeched to a halt. The driver confronted him right here.

John let out a heavy sigh. What did the driver look like?

I didn’t get a good look at him.

What did the car look like?

It was red.

Red? You don’t know the model of the car? You didn’t get a number off the plates?

I was watching Abel, not the car, his father snapped.

Just tell me what happened.

Abel seemed to expect to be caught. He had a gun.

Abel had a gun?

But he was too slow. Like I said, he was injured. The driver shot first.

John did a cursory examination of the asphalt before ushering his father to the sidewalk as a car came down the street.

There’s no blood. I see no evidence someone was shot here. What happened to Abel’s body?

His father looked down at his feet. I don’t know. The driver must have taken it.

You don’t know? Were you here watching or not?

I was hiding behind a hedge, afraid to look. When the car drove away, Abel was gone.

So you don’t even know for sure that he was killed. He could have gotten into the back seat of the red car, happy as a canary.

No. I heard a shot. I heard Abel’s body hit the pavement.

Do you know how crazy this sounds, Dad?

"You have to believe me, Son. I was here. It happened. I felt it."

John looked around at the nearby houses. I could knock on some doors, I suppose. Maybe someone heard the shot. With a little luck, we might get a description of the car.

Don’t bother. The driver used a silencer.

John scratched his head. He didn’t know what to say.

I’m not crazy, John. Look at me. There was a murder here and it was cleaned up to look like it never happened. Use your truth-telling ability on me.

I don’t need to, Dad. It works all the time whether I want it to or not. I know you believe you saw something but that doesn’t mean it actually happened. Short of getting a forensics team down here to do a detailed analysis of the asphalt, there’s not much else I can do.

No, you can’t do anything to bring attention to what I saw.

Well, what do you want me to do?

You think I’m crazy, don’t you?

Dad . . .

Well, I’m not. You aren’t the only one with an ability, you know. You inherited yours from me. Mine may not work when I want it to, but it worked this morning. It warned me that Abel was nearby and in danger even before I saw him. I sensed he had been tortured and had escaped from somewhere. He was coming to warn me.

Warn you about what?

His father looked like he wanted to answer, but didn’t.

What’s your connection to this Abel character?

Still he didn’t answer.

What’s going on, Dad? Why won’t you talk to me?

I can’t.

You’re not giving me anything to work with. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on. John huffed in frustration when his father turned away. I’m tired, Dad. I’m going home. We can talk about this later. He walked to his car and opened the driver’s side door. Come on, I’ll drop you off.

You’re not still working on the Benton case, are you?

John sighed. Yeah.

I thought you were done. I’ve been following in it on TV. The trial is almost over. It’s an open and shut case. What’s the problem?

There wouldn’t be a problem if I didn’t have this damned ability.

Don’t talk like that, his father scolded. It’s a gift, not a curse. Mine saved my life this morning.

"Mine is about to get me fired. Every bit of evidence points to Benjamin Benton, but my gift tells me the exact opposite. I’ve spent the last seven months trying to prove him innocent and I’ve gotten nowhere. The Chief is fed up with me. The D.A. thinks I’m being paid by Benton."

Trust your ability, John.

I can’t, Dad. Not this time. I’ve been over the evidence a thousand times. There’s just no other reasonable explanation. Benton killed his daughter.

* * *

A short while later, Jack stepped onto the sidewalk in front of his home. He leaned down and looked at his son behind the steering wheel.

Make no mistake, John, our abilities are gifts from God. You must trust it. If it tells you Benjamin Benton is innocent, then he is innocent. Go home now. Get some sleep. You look like hell. You never know what a new day will bring.

Jack unlocked the kitchen door and entered the code to disable the alarm. Then he closed and locked the door before rearming the security system. His mind wandered back to Abel as he poured himself a cup of coffee from the half-empty pot and popped it into the microwave.

What have I gotten myself into? he wondered out loud.

After the microwave beeped, he grabbed his mug and sat at the small kitchen table. He blew on the hot coffee as he stared out the kitchen window, replaying Abel’s words in his head.

They found me. I don’t know how, but they found me. I told them nothing, but somehow they know. They are coming for the Library, Jack. You must not allow them to take it!

What happened to you, Abel? Were you tortured to reveal the location of the Library? He took a sip from his coffee. Did you give your life to protect me? To protect the Library?

The mug was hot in his hands. Involuntarily, he set it on the table before it burned his palms.

You must not allow them to take it!

After taking a final sip of coffee, he double checked the security system, went to the basement door, and unlocked both deadbolts. It was time he knew exactly what it was he was protecting.

Chapter 5: Mission Accomplished

Slade Lassiter had been contacted through the normal means. The contract was too juicy to ignore: ten times his normal fee. That alone raised the hackles on the back of his neck. It meant the object to be obtained was exceedingly valuable, but it also raised the possibility of a double-cross at the delivery. Even with the added risk, Slade had accepted the contract. Twelve million would mean he wouldn’t need to take any more jobs for a long while, leaving him time to relax and pursue his hobby in earnest.

His employer, who went to great lengths to remain anonymous, was rather vague about what it was Slade was to obtain. A small collection of books was as specific as he got. Not a single book, but a collection. They were very old and would be stored in an oxygen-free environment. He had been given a list of possible locations, addresses in the Phoenix metropolitan area. How his employer came by the list, he wouldn’t say. Over the next few weeks, Slade had narrowed his list of possibilities to one: a well maintained, three bedroom, ranch style house with an asphalt driveway leading to a detached garage set back from the street. Located in a north-central Phoenix neighborhood, it was built in the early fifties, a time when houses were built on large, irrigated lots dotted with citrus trees.

The first owner of the house, Slade’s research revealed, had come from the Midwest, where basements were common, insisting that one be built in his new home. The term basement barely applied in this case, however. Fortress was more like it. It was windowless with two-foot thick concrete walls, and could only be entered from a door off the kitchen. It was that door that had caught Slade’s eye. Interior doors are rarely made of solid steel nor are they secured by two deadbolts. In addition, the house was protected by a monitored security system. Underground in the arid desert climate was the perfect place to hide a collection of ancient books and this house was ideally suited for it.

To Slade’s great delight, he discovered that the house’s current owner was Jack Larocque, the seventy-five year-old father of decorated homicide detective, John Larocque. Slade spent a full week learning the Old Man’s routine. It was mind-numbingly boring work for a man of Slade’s talent, but necessary and revealing. Except for a forty-minute walk each morning, there was a single activity that occupied the Old Man’s time. Like clockwork, after his early morning walk he locked himself inside his basement, sometimes not emerging until well after dark.

Slade had obtained valuable objects for his employers many times, never caring if they were rare paintings or precious gemstones. For some unexplainable reason, this time was different. What was it about books that demanded such a high price? Books themselves could be valuable to collectors, but not twelve million valuable. The value must not be the books themselves then, but the information contained in them. What information could a few centuries old books contain that would be worth that much? The Old Man certainly knew. And he would tell Slade Lassiter everything.

But first he needed to get inside that basement.

Slade knew there were two ways to get past a monitored residential alarm system. For a quick smash-and-grab, it could just be ignored. You could be in and out before the police responded, assuming they ever did, that is. Residential security systems are set off accidentally all the time. Cops are used to it. In a big city, responses to residential alarms go to the bottom of the priority list. The second way is to disable it. There are several ways to do that, but the easiest is by simply cutting the phone line where it enters the house. That only worked until the monitoring company figured out the phone wasn’t working. Even so, he would still have to be gone quickly as the noise of the alarm would eventually draw attention.

Neither of these would do this time. He needed to be able to enter undetected and to do that, he would need the alarm code.

Slade waited until ten minutes after the Old Man left for his morning walk. He crossed the quiet residential street two houses down and walked up the sidewalk, looking around nervously to see if anyone was watching. He was dressed in a long-sleeved, rock band T-shirt and oversized baggy jeans, his ball cap pulled sideways. To those he hoped would see him, he would look like a tweaker looking to steal Grandma’s jewelry.

Slade trotted up the driveway, a short crowbar in his gloved hands. He went to the carport door, the same one the Old Man used each morning. He jammed the crowbar deep into the jamb and wrenched it back with one mighty pull. The dry wood cracked but did not completely give way until Slade shoved with his shoulder, splintering the wooden doorframe. Slade dropped the crowbar and entered the kitchen. Standing on a chair from the table, he placed a small battery operated, wireless spy-cam inside the vent up high on the wall. Using a small hand-held screen, he adjusted the camera’s view of the alarm panel before returning the chair to its place.

Mission accomplished. The next time the Old Man entered his code into the alarm panel, Slade would have it, too.

He waited patiently until he heard the phone ring followed shortly by the loud bleating of the alarm, then ran wildly from the house, holding his baggy pants up with both hands.

Chapter 6: Descent into Madness

John forced the flimsy wooden door open with his shoulder and fell inside a dingy room as it gave way. The room was devoid of furniture except for a wooden armchair in the center of the room on which Melissa Benton sat. She frantically struggled, but the ropes binding her arms and legs to the chair were too tight. Her eyes were on him as he got to his feet.

Help me, she cried in a hoarse whisper. Before he comes back.

John tried to go to her but his feet wouldn’t move.

Hurry. She turned her head, looking behind her. He’s coming back!

John looked down at his feet that felt like they were cast in concrete. When he looked up, a man dressed in black was standing beside Melissa, one hand caressing her blonde head.

He’s going to kill me! she screamed at him. Why won’t you help me?

A voice to his right made John turn his head. Why won’t you help my daughter? Ben Benton, dressed in silver-toed boots and cowboy hat, towered over John. His voice was full of sorrow and disappointment.

A frail female voice to his left said, You promised to help her.

John turned to find Olivia Benton, barely able to stand without help, her rheumy, brown eyes staring back at him.

Why won’t you help her? she pleaded.

Melissa shrieked as the man in black put a gleaming knife to her throat.

John awoke with a start, sitting straight up, Melissa’s terrified screams still echoing in his mind. His entire body was wet with sweat, his chest heaving. It took a few moments to shake the images from his head. This was the third time this week that the dream had come.

A rattling-buzzing sound caused him to turn his head. His cell phone buzzed wildly on the edge of the nightstand, the charger cord keeping it from dancing off the brink. He must have forgotten to switch the ringer back on again. As he reached out his hand, it stopped buzzing. A few seconds later, the landline next to the lamp began to ring. He glanced at the clock radio as he picked up the receiver. It was just past six in the morning. Time to get up anyway.

Detective Larocque, John mumbled as he brought the phone to his ear and lay back on his pillow.

John Larocque? a male voice on the other end of the line asked.

Yes. Who is this?

This is Brinks Home Security. We are showing an alarm going off at the Jack Larocque residence. We’ve been unable to reach Mr. Larocque. You are at the top of the call list. Do you know the code word?

John searched his memory. He vaguely remembered his father telling him about this many years ago. Uh, yeah. The word is ‘basement.’

John rubbed his eyes and sat up in bed, fully