The Rockets' Red Glare

By Alan Payne

Having given up her high-powered career in the FBI, Jac Swann left the Bureau for the quiet life of a small town sheriff in rural Virginia. But the bucolic escape takes a grisly turn when a brutal murder happens on her new turf, and the dead man is a local businessman who apparently had no enemies. But as Swann and her lead investigator, Rob Lyle, begin to dig deeply, all is not as it seems. The man was not the stellar character he appeared to be, and the secrets he held would give rise to any number of suspects. But when more mutilated bodies turn up, the darkest secret of all will lead to something far more sinister than a serial killer—something that could devastate her tiny county and shake the roots of national security.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan Payne
• Release date: Sep 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301616749

Alan Payne

Alan Payne is a freelance commercial writer and former military journalist. He lives on a private lake in Virginia with his wife, three dogs, and a cat. He is active in animal rescue and fostering.

Book preview

Chapter 1

An east wind swept up the lower Potomac River as dawn grew bold on the horizon and a cirrus sky burned orange with a new day.

Mike Moss guided his work boat through Currioman Bay, thankful for the calmer waters between the mainland and Shark’s Tooth Island—a long narrow spit of beaches and grasses and skeletal cedars that buffered the Virginia shoreline from the moody river. On weekends it was a favorite haunt of boaters and amateur fossil hunters.

Moss smiled at his son Michael huddled in the bow and then nudged the tiller to port as they passed Asparagus Point and slipped into Currioman Creek. Blue Crab II purred softly into its depths; the wind turned breathless; mist clung to the docile water, parting silently as the work boat pierced the mystical curtain. Moss squinted ahead and keyed in on the farthest buoy in the line, then eased back on the throttle as he approached it. He touched reverse, with a spot of right rudder, and expertly nudged the work boat snug to the multicolored marker. A shroud of mist enclosed them.

Today was Michael’s first day as a waterman and the excitement of a new adventure etched his young face. The young boy slipped his hands into the heavy rubber gloves, anticipating his first haul of a laden pot. He was big for eleven and his father was grateful for the extra muscle to lighten the load of hauling, emptying and re-baiting more than a hundred pots. Mike smiled to himself, remembering the first day his father had taken him as first mate—and the utter exhaustion at day’s end.

He called to Michael. It’s all yours, boy, bring ‘er up.

Michael grinned widely and aired a high five, then set to work bringing up his first catch. Hand over hand he tugged on the line but found it heavier than expected; it barely budged. Bracing himself against the gunwale he pulled harder, feeling the thin line dig into the rubber gloves. At first Mike smiled at his son’s efforts, but then realized the pot was stuck. He turned to the seat behind him for his own gloves when a scream erupted from the boy as he stumbled across the deck and pin-wheeled backward over the starboard side. Moss lunged for his son but was too late. The boat rocked with his weight and almost threw Moss overboard. Seconds later Michael’s head popped to the surface, sputtering and spitting brackish water. He reached out to his father’s hand and was pulled to the middle of the floor, shivering uncontrollably, his breath fast and short, his young eyes wide with terror.

What is it, Michael? Moss barked, gripping his son’s shoulder, trying to calm him.

Michael pointed toward the crab pot. "God, dad, it’s awful. Really gross!"

Don’t move . . . stay! Moss turned to port and reached for the crab pot line and began hauling it in. It was heavy, but it wasn’t stuck. He leaned back, leveraging his foot on the gunwale and pulling with all his strength. The pot broke surface and Moss almost screamed himself—and then he vomited over the side.

A writhing cloak of crabs was feasting on the bloated flesh of a headless torso.

Chapter 2

No phone should ring at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning.

Jac’s hand snaked from under the covers and groped the nightstand until it found the offending noise. With her head still snuggled under a floppy pillow, she slid the phone into the cocoon and grunted into it. Swann.

Sheriff? It’s me, Lyle! You said if we ever got a nasty murder you wanted to take the lead. You better get here right away, ‘cause this is the nastiest one I’ve ever seen. I swear, Sheriff, you gotta—

Jac popped awake. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and whispered into the mouthpiece, Hold on, take a breath Rob. And then, as if on cue, a yawn shuddered her tired body. She shut her eyes a moment and ran her fingers through her long blond hair and then grabbed her robe and slippers from a straight-backed chair next to the king-size bed. She moved silently from the room so as not to awaken Matt, her long-time boy friend, whom she had not seen for several weeks; and after two bottles of wine and a night of renewed passion, his visit had left little time for sleep. So Jac was in no mood for a nasty murder, especially in a county of seventeen thousand whose most bizarre crime of the last decade had been old farmer Barnard romping with an Angus in his pasture. What could be nastier than that, she thought? Jac smiled at her own sick humor.

At the end of the macadam pavement a deputy’s patrol car flashed its blue authority. A couple hundred yards ahead, at the edge of a fallow corn field, a sport ute with a small boat trailer in tow was parked next to a copse of locust trees. Swann turned her all-wheel drive Explorer onto the muddy tractor path that circled the field and aimed for the trees abutting the shoreline. Deputy Jake Martin was stationed at the edge of the woods waiting for her. He moved toward her car as it approached. He was new to law enforcement, her second hire, not yet six months in uniform, and Jac could see he was anxious, nervous. She got out and grabbed a pair of waders from the back seat.

In there, Sheriff. It’s really ugly. The poor bastard must’a floated in from the river. Detective Lyle’s using Peltier’s Jon boat. She’s ashore with the video recorder and camera waiting for you.

Swann shielded her eyes and scanned the area and then turned back to Martin and glared. "What if the body didn’t float in, Jake? What if somebody drove up here like we did, dragged it through the underbrush to the creek, and put it in the water?"

Well . . . we didn’t think that was the case—

"Think, deputy! Where’s the yellow tape?"

In the patrol car. Sorry, Sheriff. I’ll go get it. He turned to leave.

Yes . . . wait. Jac eased her tone as she scanned the area with a pointing finger. I want this whole area cordoned off; the other side of the creek, too.

Yes, ma’am. He swung around and walked quickly toward the patrol car.

Swann turned towards the tree line and then picked her way through the underbrush. A twinge of guilt plagued her. She shouldn’t have laced into Martin; if anyone, it should be Lyle. He knows better. At the edge of the creek she met Deputy Susan Peltier with a man and a young boy. Lyle was given a brief reprieve. Swann looked over at Blue Crab II and back to the man. That your boat?

Yes, Sheriff. Mike Moss . . . this is my boy Michael.

Jac nodded. I’ll need your statement at my office, Mr. Moss.

"Look, Sheriff, I got more than a hundred pots to check. It’s not like that body’s actually in my boat. It’s hung up on one a’ the crab pots. There’s nothin’ to tell. Can I have my boat now?"

The ME’s investigator is on his way up from Richmond. ‘Til he’s done, your boat’s anchored. Sorry. Swann turned to Peltier. Give me the cameras and take these two to my car. Have them wait. Then come back, I might need you.

Right, Sheriff. The deputy ushered Moss and his son back through the underbrush as Swann leaned against a downed tree and put on the waders. She adjusted the shoulder straps then slipped into the water and trudged along the shoreline until she was opposite Blue Crab II. The creek was only a couple hundred feet wide here and she could get a good look at the body draped over the pot. She recorded the scene on the camcorder, sweeping it from the mouth of the creek to the marshy end, and then slowly back again on zoom. She set the camcorder on a grassy spot on shore and called for Lyle in the olive drab Jon boat. The electric motor purred almost silently as the dinghy moved away from the workboat and swung to shore to pick her up. Jac directed him to nudge the boat next to the waterman’s and hold them in place. She bent over the bow and carefully studied the remains before snapping photos.

The crab pot mooring line was wedged into the armpit of the dead man, holding the remains to the wire trap. There was no head—only a dark hole. Maybe that was a blessing Jac thought. It was bad enough seeing the crabs dine on the torso, but it would be beyond grisly if a face had been the main course. Then again . . . a headless body, with brackish water gurgling in a hole where the throat once was, was not a sight one relished before breakfast.

Swann looked up and over at Peltier who had returned and was pacing the shoreline. Do we have a rope to pull the body ashore after the ME’s inspector does his thing? It might capsize us if we try to put it in your boat.

Should be some line in the canvass bag next to the battery box, Sheriff, Peltier answered. There should also be some PFDs under the middle seat. Just then the thwop, thwop of a helicopter cruised overhead and disappeared behind the stand of trees. The rotor noise softened to a rhythmic swirling as the copter landed in the pasture. Moments later a rustling through the underbrush preceded a striking brunette in a black suede jacket. She was cursing loudly as branches whipped across her face and the soft ground played havoc with her high heels. Gripped in her hand was a microphone. Five feet behind her a man with a mini cam followed obediently. She stopped abruptly and the cameraman almost ran into her. Hey, she called out to Swann, you the police chief?

Sheriff . Who the hell are you?

Becky Strauss. CBC cable news out of DC. Got a call a half-hour ago and bee-lined down on the network chopper. Damn, that’s really gross, she added, transfixed on the top half of the torso sticking above the water. She grabbed her cameraman and yanked him in front of her. God, this is great, Jimmy! Get a close up where the head should be. She looked back to Swann. Who is it?

Don’t recognize the face, Swann said sarcastically, and then snapped at Peltier. Get cable news Barbie and her lap dog outta here. And tell Martin to get that tape up before we have a damned tourist attraction.

Hey, c’mon Strauss protested as Peltier took her brusquely by the elbow and dragged her back through the woods. This is news! she yelled over her shoulder. Gimme a break. You can’t do this!

Watch me, lady, Swann growled under her breath as she resumed her inspection of the torso.

Chapter 3

Sorry about that, Peltier said, depositing Strauss and her cameraman back at the edge of the cornfield. The Sheriff’s not big on the media. Especially when they’re tromping all over her crime scene.

What’s her name? Becky asked, her voice all honey now, trying to cozy up to the deputy.

"Swann. Jac Swann. And if you want any chance she’ll talk to you later, you better get out of here before she comes back to her car."

Thanks, Deputy. Uh . . . maybe you could answer a couple of questions for me? she asked, beaming an Oscar winning smile. But Peltier had already discounted the reporter, turned, and was striding back toward the creek. As soon as she was out of earshot Strauss spewed her anger. That bitch sheriff! Who the hell does she think she is? She wouldn’t know a dead body from Juan Valdez taking a siesta.

Lighten up, Becky. I got some great shots, and you’ve got one helluva scoop, Jimmy said. You should be glad they didn’t have the crime tape up yet. We never should have gotten that close. C’mon, let’s get on the chopper and get back to DC.

"No! All you got were shots of a headless body and that fat ass bitch bending over it. You think Sam’s going to let us run that on headline news? I need more: who, what, when, where, why and how. Remember? And all I got is the where . . . and even that’s not set in stone if that damn body floated in from Maryland. I gotta make this big, Jimmy. All I ever get are Mickey Mouse-shit stories."

Jimmy Talin shrugged resignedly as Strauss fumbled in her purse for her BlackBerry. When she couldn’t find it she cursed like a longshoreman and settled for her cell phone. She glanced over at the deputy stringing the yellow tape, and then put more distance from him before punching in the speed dial for her office in DC. She waited to be connected . . . and waited . . . and waited. Damn it, now what the hell? She glared at the offending phone. No bars. And then she laughed inappropriately. Can you hear me now? Can you hear me now? she pleaded, mimicking the TV ad and looking skyward as if praying. She stormed around the field, cursing her high heels and the stubble of last year’s corn stalks raking at her legs. She was searching for a signal and mumbling, What the hell is this place, Bedrock? She finally got two bars and stopped dead in her tracks, not daring to move. She punched in the speed dial again. This time she got a halfway decent signal as Mary, her assistant, picked up. Mary, it’s me. Believe it or not I’m standing in the middle of a freakin’ cornfield in something called the Northern Neck of Virginia. Near Montrose? Something like that. Google car rentals for me. I need one ASAP.

What’s wrong with your BlackBerry?

I forgot it. Just do it. And make it quick.

A minute later Mary was back on the line. "There’s one in a town called Tappahannock. Looks to be about fifteen or twenty miles from Montross. That’s with two s’s at the end, by the way. Not s, e."

Whatever. Where can we land the chopper over there?

Hold on. Becky could here a series of keystrokes as Mary did a quick search. They got a small airport.

Great! Get me a car. Have it delivered to the airport. We’re taking off now. Strauss was about to end the call when a thought hit her. Quickly she barked into the phone. "Mary! Wait! Do a LexisNexis on the Sheriff down here. Name’s Jac Swann. Don’t know if it’s short for Jacqueline or Jack off. Probably the latter. I want to know everything about her before I get back to Montross. When I get done with this bitch, she’s going to look like a pussy Barney Fife. She snapped the phone shut, threw it back into her purse and stepped up into the helicopter. C’mon, Jimmy. We gotta get back here before the other news services catch wind."

Okay, but it wasn’t, you know.

What wasn’t?

The sheriff’s ass; it wasn’t fat. Pretty damn nice, actually.

Men . . . Strauss rolled her eyes and then motioned to the pilot to lift off.

Chapter 4

Lyle had just beached the Jon boat into the grassy bank when the ME’s investigator from Richmond emerged from the tree line. In rural areas crime scene investigation was the purview of local law enforcement; the ME did not work the crime scenes. There were exceptions, however: if the murder was especially horrific, the ME sent an investigator, who, while not a doctor, had medical knowledge. He strode quickly to Jac, his movements swift and precise. A small black bag was gripped in his hand. Jac stepped off the bow and extended her hand. She towered over him. Jac Swann.

Ralph Traynor. I’ve heard a lot about you, Sheriff. You’re kind of a celebrity to small town law enforcement. Sorry we had to meet under these circumstances. But then we’re not exactly a social club, are we? Not expecting a reply, Traynor glanced around Jac’s shoulder and added, Not too many murders up this way. What’ve you got?

Swann pointed to Blue Crab II, still anchored alongside the crab pot, and the headless torso. Pretty gruesome. The crabs have been having a smorgasbord. From the look of the flesh I’d say the body’s been in the water for some time; probably floated in from the river. But in case it was dumped from shore, we cordoned off both sides of the creek. We’ve had a lot of rain the last couple weeks, though, and I don’t expect we’ll find much. Hopefully we can get an ID from the fingerprints, if they haven’t been eaten.

Thanks, Sheriff. Can I use your boat to bring the body ashore?

Sure. Deputy Peltier will help you. There’s a rope and life jackets under the seats if it would be easier to drag the body in. When you’re done, please pull the waterman’s boat ashore and secure it. When can I get a report from your office?

The ME might have a preliminary by tomorrow, Traynor offered, but with the weekend and a full moon the ghouls were on a spree. We’ve got a half dozen bodies cooling their heels in the drawers.

Jac grunted, ignoring the gallows humor, and then slipped her card from a shirt pocket. I’m leaving. I’ll be at my office for an hour or so if you come up with something now. If you have something tomorrow, call me at my home number; if not, I’ll be in the office Monday morning at eight.

Come on Jimmy, stow your gear and let’s go. I need to corner that bitch before the other media catches wind. Becky Strauss looked at her watch and fumed. I can’t believe it took that asshole car rental guy an hour to deliver a car five miles. Talin was loading his cameras into the back seat of the rental Ford as Strauss slid behind the driver’s wheel and started the car. She drummed her fingers on the wheel impatiently, waiting for her cameraman. When he finally got in the passenger seat, she slammed the car into gear and shot out of the small airport.

Becky, for God’s sake, slow down. We don’t even know where we’re going.

Then look at the damn map the rental guy gave us and navigate.

Did anyone ever say ‘No’ to you when you were a kid?

They still don’t. Shut up and look at the map.

Talin let out a deep sigh and unfolded the map. With his finger he followed the inked line the agent had scrawled on the map from Tappahannock to Montross.

Becky—

What?

You’re going the wrong way. Turn around.

Shit!

Can I ask you something?

What? Damnit.

Do you eat with that mouth?

Becky started to say something, then stopped and glanced over at Talin. Sorry. Bad habits die hard. I’ve actually been trying. At least I’ve stopped using the F bomb.

Why would a beautiful woman like you need to swear all the time?

I said I was sorry. Drop it.

Can’t. Not if I’m going to be stuck working with you. I’m no prude, but constant swearing’s for people who can’t think of anything intelligent to say. And I know you’re not stupid. So lighten up or find a new cameraman.

Strauss’s jaw set, the muscles tightened as she stared straight ahead. After a silence that was worse than confrontation, she looked over at him and was about to speak. Her cell rang. Quickly she answered. Strauss.

Becky, it’s me. Mary’s usual reserve was excited. I got the low down on your Sheriff Swann, and—

Strauss’s mouth became a sneer. Great! Give me some ammo, Mary. I’m going to interview this bi—, she glanced over at Jimmy, this woman in about a half hour . . . and I can’t wait.

Slow down, Becky. You’d better think twice before you storm the castle gates. And then Mary briefed her on Sheriff Swann.

Becky’s sneer melted to disappointment. Are you sure? You got the right Jac Swann?

Double checked it.

Damn. She looked over at Jimmy and then snapped the phone shut and put her foot down on the accelerator.

Chapter 5