Dark Shadow Rising

By Carolyn Chambers Clark

DARK SHADOW RISING is a fast-paced, political thriller of 76,000 words in the vein of The Pelican Brief.

Ann Whitney's in love with her scruffy, Pulitzer-prize winning investigative reporter husband. All is well in her world until a plane crashes over Dubrovnik. When she learns it was carrying the Secretary of Energy and executives from telecommunication, banking, and energy, and her investigative reporter husband, she sets out to find out what happened.

Ann soon runs into the widower of the secretary of Energy and together they set out to find the real story.

As they delve into the information, they begin to question who's at fault. It could be the Air Force, the Bosnians, a pilot who's gone terrorist or crazy, the CIA, The Pentagon, The President, or someone else closer to home.
What they find is more questions, chief among them: What was her husband really investigating, and what is Safe Haven?

Soon, they're being hunted and time is running out...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carolyn Chambers Clark
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476242019

Carolyn Chambers Clark

Carolyn Chambers Clark is a board-certified advanced holistic nurse practitioner with a master's degree in mental health nursing and a doctorate in education. She is a faculty member in the Health Services Doctoral Program at Walden University, and she hosts http://home.earthlink.net/~cccwellness and http://HolisticHealth.bellaonline.com.

Book preview

Copyright Carolyn Chambers Clark, 2012

Smashwords Edition

DARK SHADOW RISING

Chapter 1

Redington Shores, Florida

10 p.m., Monday

Dick Whitney sat opposite the most beautiful woman in the dining room. From his position, he could look out at the full moon and the thousand stars garnishing the sky above the Gulf of Mexico. He could inhale the smell of garlic bread and the rich tomato-basil sauce that lingered in the air of Antonio’s Ristorante. Dick wasn't focusing on the delicious smells or the view, at least not the one out the window. He feasted his eyes on his red-haired companion and raised his drink. Happy Birthday.

Ann smiled and crinkled her nose, one of the things he loved most about her. They clinked glasses and then he stared at her, amazed. This fantastic woman had chosen to marry him, a scruffy newspaper man fifteen years her senior.

She looked the same as she had on their wedding day. She still adored him. He could see it dancing in those luminous green eyes of hers.

The soft light put a sheen in Ann's red hair and made orange shadows in the folds of her peach top and linen skirt. Thanks for the gift, she said in her clear alto. How he loved that voice. It could calm him in a crisis or urge him on during lovemaking.

The outfit suited her. He'd paid too much for it at a beach boutique, but seeing her in it was worth ten times the price.

She sipped anisette, her eyes half-closing when she swallowed. The letters. They nudged him from his pocket so he only heard fragments of what she said next. ...years teaching...research...help solve our country's problems...Dick?

What had she just asked him? Something about her new position. You have real guts, baby he said, turning down that high-paying job to do research.

She raised her glass and smiled. To your Pulitzer. Admiration glimmered in her eyes.

It had been satisfying, exposing the corporate scams. The Prize had been unexpected. He leaned back in his chair. Not bad for a poor boy from Brooklyn.

She gave him a look that said not-bad-at-all. What are you working on at the paper now?

State fuel tank cleanup.

He finished his after-dinner drink and signaled the waiter for a refill. His brain registered the crease of concern starting to spread across Ann's brow.

You're not getting letters again, are you? She patted his hand.

"Just a few. Don't worry. All investigative reporters get them. Something to joke about with the other guys at the Times." What he didn’t tell her was that now, the stakes escalated. Taking on bigger fish—governors, powerful senators and businessmen—meant more danger.

She narrowed her eyes in disbelief and pushed a clump of curly hair back from her forehead. Can’t fool me. I saw that editorial about politicians caving in to big business.

He set his glass down and vowed not to have another. Drinking had been a way to reduce the stress of his job. It had quickly turned to more.

Ann shook her head and tightened her jaw. Did you volunteer for this one?

He nodded, feeling the liquor tingling in his stomach and toes. Lovely little alcoholic explosions. Cool, dark sparkles of spruce, taking away all pain, all revulsion.

Dick pictured his emaciated father dying of alcoholism. Had he started this way? He looked into Ann's eyes. Those oil guys wrote the book on greed. After all the damage they've done, now they're going to be rewarded.

Ann set her glass down on the table. I'm glad you're going after this, honey. Somebody has to.

He took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of her approval building his gin-confidence. With an investment of a couple hundred thousand dollars, they could get millions in return.

Where did you get all this zeal to stop injustice?

He shrugged. Walking the neighborhood with my mother. I helped her register voters, and tell everyone about the importance of just one vote. But you're the one who helped me use the right weapon. I probably would have gone off half-cocked, bought a rifle, and fired it at a few politicians.

She smiled. Not you. You'd never do that.

Maybe not, but you did make me see I could do something positive. He threw back the last of his drink. Hell, maybe he could even change the course of history—one piece at a time.

Tampa, Florida

11 p.m., Monday

The man, known only as Masoofa, clicked off the headlights and drove the stolen car into the parking lot outside the university. Palm fronds fluttered and clacked above him when he stepped onto the asphalt. He pulled a backpack over his tan maintenance uniform and secured the straps across his chest, sniffing the wind that forced humid air into his nostrils. .

The building lay ahead, a solid wedge held in the mouth of the campus. He smiled to himself. The whole place could shrink or disappear from the face of the earth and it wouldn’t matter.

His target loomed ahead, dark and quiet except for a light on the second floor. The man on the phone had not mentioned a light.

No lights should be on. A small mistake, but inexcusable.

Perfection. This was a dangerous business, one that demanded order and efficiency. He slicked back his hair and congratulated himself on his plan. Artillery plants and saw palmetto bushes hid in the dark like foolish soldiers. The sidewalk stood effervescent before him as he walked up the cement toward the front door.

The key fit in the lock just as his contact said it would. The entryway smelled of student papers and floor wax. He moved quickly, his sneakers squeaking along the tile, following the steep red steps in front of him up to the second floor.

The dull buzz of a waxing machine reached his ears. He followed the sound until he saw the back of the tan uniform. Before the maintenance man could turn around Masoofa stood behind him, a knife at the back of his neck. One swift slash and the man fell to the floor.

According to the dossier that had been slipped under his door at the motel, no one would be in the building. Another mistake. How many other flaws in the plan would appear?

He grabbed his bag and hurried down the hall through a set of double doors, knife in hand in case he met someone along the way. In the men's room, he flicked on the light, entered the last stall, and took off his backpack. He picked up the plastic explosives, then examined the clock, the safety, the arming device and the detonator.

Satisfied, he set the timer and carefully hung the bomb on the back of the toilet. When he finished, Masoofa closed his backpack and slung it over his shoulders. At 11:30 p.m., he left the building and headed off campus.

* **

Carrollwood, Florida

Midnight, Monday

In the dark hallway of a house on Whitewood Drive, Masoofa crept across the marble floor. A blue Datsun pulled away, driven by a middle-aged man the report identified as Dr. Rafferty's lover.

No sense killing two people when one would do. Too many bodies meant too many clues.

His mind purred with congratulations. He was nothing like that man on the phone, pushing to have this done quickly. Haste meant mistakes. He could wait to get what he wanted. Cool, precise, and organized. That was how to be a professional.

The stairs creaked under his feet, but not enough to alert anyone. The door to the master bedroom opened with a click under his fingers.

His shirt, slacks, nylon cap and shoes were black. Classic color. Sophisticated. He wore a black crew cut wig under his cap, and sported a short-clipped mustache and a goatee. Almost professorial.

Except for the knife.

Make sure there aren't any connections to the blowup of the campus building. It had been stipulated by his instructions. So be it. No problem for a master of disguises.

The bedroom lay ahead, blue-black and vast.

He slipped across the tile floor without a sound. The professor of environmental science snored in her bed. He sniffed. Jean Naté and the acrid sweat of her lover. She sprawled across the bed, sheets coiled around her legs, mouth half-open, eyes fluttering in a dream-state.

Sleep well, Lydia. Soon you will sleep forever.

He slid the knife out of the leather holder on his belt. One slash and she died. Her hands flinched and her legs shook, but her eyes never opened.

The phone rang and he froze. It rang four more times and then a female voice spoke. This is Professor Rafferty. We're not here to answer. Please leave a message after the beep and have a great day.

Whoever was on the other end hung up; perhaps her lover signaling, leaving an all-clear call. Such trivia cluttered some people's lives, but not his. All thoughts must stay on one mission and only one mission. Everything else must fall away from his attention like snakes sliding off a cool wall.

Do all jobs well or do not do them at all. Those had been his father's words.

His father. A shadowy image of a tall and angry man in a beard emerged in his mind. The man snatched away from him by some killer’s gun.

Now it fell to him to continue his father’s work.

He wiped his knife on the sheet and snapped the weapon back into its holder. No one would be checking it for bloodstains. No way to connect him to this death, but still, who wanted the blood of a victim next to him?

He glanced out the kitchen window. No movement noted. He left by the back door, disappearing into the shadows.

* * *

Redington Shores, Florida

1 a.m., Tuesday

To nine years of marriage. Dick raised his wine glass to Ann.

She tapped her glass against his, and took a sip, letting the pungent liquid warm her throat. Our life has a settled quality. I like that. She set her glass on their dining room table and pulled her chair closer to his. They had so much to celebrate.

He smiled at her and refilled her glass. You don't like my trips.

She tried to smile back. No, I don't. He'd be away for ten days this time, unraveling the soft cocoon of her life.

It's just a routine trip.

Nothing was ever routine about his work. She couldn't help wonder what this one would bring. What about the fuel cleanup? This assignment seems more dangerous than the others, more ominous. Bosnia is not the oil fields of Texas.

He shrugged as if she'd just asked him if he wanted the Jets to win. Football was not his game. News was. We weren't going to send anyone, although we can't really ignore a White House invitation.

Why you? She wanted to shout it, let out some of her frustration about him going on a potentially dangerous assignment, but she forced herself to sound calm.

My editor probably wants me out of the way until they can figure out who's sending the hate letters this time.

But your boss switched you to regional news. She hated being this way, but it was an old pattern.

This could really turn into something big.

She deposited her gold bracelet on the table. Jeffrey couldn’t go? He’s single.

I interviewed the Vice President when he was here campaigning during the election. I came off pretty knowledgeable on environmental issues. I’m the one who needs to go.

Write down your itinerary for me. She took the ribbon out of her hair and felt clumps of curls fall to her shoulders. He was an investigative reporter. He traveled for work. Get used to it. But, she'd never get used to waking up without having Dick beside her, eating dinner alone, or weeks without making love.

He got up, grabbed a pad from the side table, and scratched some words across the page. I'll be flying to Andrews Air Force Base to meet up with a couple of executive mucky-mucks and the Secretary of Energy. Then we're off to Berne with a short stop in Bosnia.

She slipped her feet out of her black pumps. Another of Assunta Henderson's famous missions to change the world from an oil economy and put more global controls on materials for nuclear weapons?

He came up behind and put his arms around her. Something like that.

Why couldn't it be just the two of them? Why did he always have to complicate things and go off on assignments? Just write it down for me. I won't remember all of it.

How could he just wipe away all the feelings of comfort she'd tried so hard to hold onto? It all sounded so worthwhile, but she didn't like it. Her quiet world had been shaken.

* * *

Carrollwood, Florida

5:00 a.m., Tuesday

Simon Sez, the vegetarian eatery in Carrollwood hadn't opened for business yet. The crowd who frequented the upscale restaurant didn't come out until noon, according to the dossier. Lunch and dinner were the specialties of its owner, Joel Lowenstein, a big supporter of Greenpeace and the Sierra Club.

Even the baker hadn't arrived when Masoofa got out of his car, grabbed a small nylon bag and entered through the rear door, after easily disabling the crude alarm system. The kitchen lay ahead dark and fragrant, full of last night's dinner smells. He passed a bank of butcher blocks and rows of hanging stainless steel and copper pots. They vibrated from his movement, making soft metallic sounds. He entered the intimate dining room. Just the kind of place that appealed to American professors and their families. How inconsequential their daily activities were.

Propped between a huge globe and a miniature wood carving of a dolphin, a heart-shaped blackboard announced the menu: broccoli and wild rice casserole, meatless moussaka, brown rice risotto with asparagus and porcini mushrooms and for the non-purist ... baked flounder fillets with fennel crust.

He walked to the closest table, bent down, unzipped the bag he carried, and took out a bomb. It looked like a bomb, but one crucial component, the arming device, was missing. He attached the plastic explosive, clock and detonator to the table stand.

When he finished, he stood up and surveyed his work. Smiling, he pictured the panic that would ensue when the mechanism was found. His work done, he left the way he had come.

Radio blaring on a Top-40 station, he drove his White Mercury Tracer with Florida plates to the airport. He changed clothes in the rest room and waited for the flight from Washington, DC.

* * *

Redington Shores, Florida

7:15 a.m., Tuesday

Ann Whitney woke in their beach house with a touch of sadness in her heart. Dick was going away for two weeks.

Their clothes scattered the floor on the way to their bed from too much wine and hasty lovemaking. In the hazy light, she looked over at her husband and listened. He had pulled all the covers off her and lay on his back, a soft sputter rolling off his lips with each exhale

For April, it felt cold. A yank, and the end of the down quilt left his side of the bed and floated softly over her body.

Wide awake, she stood up and shoved her arms into a cotton robe. Brisk air came through the crack in the window and she shivered. A delivery truck rumbled outside just before she heard the slap of their newspaper hitting the pavement, while in the distance, a neighbor's car roared to life.

The sun rose, sending shafts of golden light streaming across their room, bringing with it the scent of orange blossoms and jasmine. She looked out the sliding glass door for a moment, then headed toward the kitchen, hunger grumbling in her stomach.

She turned on the burner under the teapot. The fluorescent numbers on the stove read 7:30.

Her body ached and her head buzzed from the wine and rich food. Better skimp on breakfast to make up for that plate of pasta and huge slice of hazelnut cake at Tony's.

She grabbed a peach out of the fruit bowl and bit into it, letting the sweet juice bathe her throat. Carrying a cup of peppermint tea for herself and a cup of chamomile for Dick, she went back into their room. She crawled in bed and flipped on the television set to a local news show. The words, Special Report ran along the bottom of the screen.

Look at this. She poked her husband. He moaned and rolled over. The brown-skinned anchor woman on the screen looked tired, her face pinched, her eyes puffy. Dressed in an elegant suit, her hair perfectly in place, she looked as if she’d just come out of the beauty parlor. Her rich contralto soared across the room. The University of South Florida's student newspaper received a communication last week. The letter said that on April 4, a group of War Purgers would kill a white female professor, blow up a campus building, and plant a fake bomb in a public eating area to cause panic and disarray.

Richard. Ann turned the volume up.

Dick sat up and yawned. Who's going to kill who? he said, in a voice that sounded dreamy, yet irked.

Someone threatened to blow up a building at USF. She handed him his tea. Here, drink this. She propped up two pillows behind them.

The anchor woman continued. USF officials say they have not been able to determine whether the letter is a serious threat or a bad joke, coming as it does on the heels of the investigation of Andrew Mazubadi, Nigerian Ambassador to the United Nations for arranging a visa for Dr. Sosobia, a professor at the University of South Florida.

Spooky, isn't it? Dick said, rubbing his jaw.

Ann nodded, keeping her eyes glued to the screen.

USF officials have offered a $10,000 reward for information leading to the conviction of the author of the letter. President of the University, Beverly Connors, said her 'first inclination was to operate as usual, but that is against the best advice of local law enforcement.'

The camera switched to a different angle and the anchor woman adjusted her body. As a result, the University will virtually close down for the rest of the week.

The anchor woman turned to her partner and her face softened. What do you think, Jed, is this an overreaction?

Her co-anchor, a plump, silver-haired man in a bow tie and dark suit, who looked as if he might launch in a sales pitch, smiled at the woman. Some experts have said this is an overreaction, but a lot of employees do not feel safe or secure being on campus. They say they cannot operate normally in such a potentially dangerous environment.

Dick pressed a finger on Ann's arm. Who is Sosobia?

She turned and looked at him. He's an engineering professor. USF just found out he falsified his application for U.S. citizenship by failing to include his leadership in two world domination groups. He's a member of the World in Sophisticated Economies. They call themselves WISE.

Dick sat up and yawned. I heard about them. Didn't they try to disband NAFTA?

Shhh-- Ann said, they're talking about that right now.

The anchor woman looked into the camera. Dr. Sosabia was the elected leader of WISE, one of two groups responsible for threatening NAFTA’s downfall.

Someone handed the anchor woman a sheet of paper. Wrinkles formed around her mouth and she furrowed her eyebrows. Her voice took on a tone of sadness when she said, I'm sorry to have to announce that a fake bomb was placed in the School of Public Health on the University of South Florida campus. Since University officials are unsure whether there may be other bombs. Classes have been suspended. She looked deep into the camera. No students were harmed, but a maintenance man has been found dead. His name will not be released until next of kin have been notified.

Dick sat up even straighter, blinking and pulling on his earlobe. My God, weren't you at the School of Public Health last night before we had dinner?

Ann nodded, heart pounding. Yes, I went to see Dr. Jessop about my child abuse study. A sickening feeling grew inside her. She could have been there when the bomb was being left, might have passed the madman in the hall.

She squeezed Dick's hand. I can't believe it.

He put his arm around her. Maybe I better cancel my trip. Stay home.

"You know I'd love that, but what good would that do except irritate your boss?

He kissed her cheek. You're right, but I don't feel safe leaving you here alone.

I'll be fine. I won't make any night trips to USF. She couldn't make him stay with her just because she was afraid. No, she wouldn't do that to him.

You need to touch base with somebody. What about your mother?

On vacation with Dad. Besides, nothing else is going to happen. The worst already has. She smiled at him. I can take care of myself.

They sat side-by-side, legs touching, huddling under the quilt. The anchor woman cautioned all USF students to stay home, and warned Tampa Bay residents not to try to enter the campus because it had been cordoned off.

The camera switched from the studio to the agitated face of the President of the University. She stood in front of a podium with her bifocals pushed down on her nose. A quality of grandmotherly concern covered her face, but her eyes were penetrating.

Did you have any inkling such a thing could happen? the anchor woman asked.

President Connors took a deep breath and said softly. It's a tragedy that something like this could happen. I offer sincere sympathy to the family of the maintenance man. We can only hope no one else will be harmed.

Do you believe Professor Sosobia had anything to do with the bomb?

President Connors shook her head and squeezed her lips together. We do not have the investigative prowess of the FBI. Proper inquiries were made, but as a university, we cannot take action against professors or anyone else for their political beliefs in the absence of legal charges.

She's just covering her back, Dick said.

Jennifer nodded.

President Connors touched the knot of her red neck scarf. "The college is officially closed for the rest of the week while we check the campus. All administrative staff