Honor Bound

By C. K. Thomas

Honor Bound, a suspense novel introducing Kate Dalton an investigative reporter for the Phoenix Daily News, moves at a fast pace from the scene of a traumatic event behind a waterfall in the Midwest to the searing deserts of the Southwest. A life and death encounter with the Mexican Mafia unfolds on a starlit beach in Puerto Penasco as secrets tightly held for 20 years begin to unravel back in the States. Childhood secrets shared among four independent women whose friendship flourished as children of the 50s, survived the tumultuous 60s, and struggled during the 80s to endure in the face of extreme distress and deceit drive this novel to an exciting and satisfying conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. K. Thomas
• Release date: Oct 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311379535

C. K. Thomas

C.K. Thomas lives in Phoenix, Arizona with her husband, Frank, and Chihuahuas, Cleo and Peanut. She earned her first dollar writing a poem for a teen magazine when she was 14 years old. As an adult she continued to write freelance book reviews and articles for various publications, including Rider motorcycle magazine and The Arizona Republic’s weekly Arizona Magazine. Arrowstar is her second novel and marks the first in a series of novels set in Mineral City, a fictional town situated in the southeast corner of Arizona. Cheryl and her husband own ranch-land near Willcox, Arizona and roaming that area often serves as inspiration for her writing. While not claiming to be a cowgirl herself, she continues to admire the independent spirits of women who ride horseback and hold their own on ranches all over the state of Arizona. She intends for her stories about adventurous women not only to entertain, but also to inspire each woman who reads the books of the Arrowstar series to ... Take a chance, amaze yourself!

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Honor Bound

C.K. Thomas

Copyright (c) 1996 by C.K. Thomas

Smashwords Edition

eBook formatting and cover design by FormattingExperts.com

All rights reserved.

This book or any portions thereof may not be reproduced for any purposes other than review, without the written permission of the author.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author. References to the Indianapolis Star, The Kokomo Tribune, and the former Kokomo Times are also fictionalized.

This book is dedicated to my husband, Frank Del Monte, who with his typical Italian zeal, proclaimed, Get on with it!

Sincere thanks for the support of friends, John Stanley and Kent Wells, dubbed members of The Literary Society, who gave me encouragement and kept up with my progress during lunch breaks while we were all employed in the business of putting out a Phoenix newspaper in 1994

Special thanks to Lu Sanford for her copy-editing skills.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

Other books by C.K. Thomas

Preview of Arrowstar

Prologue

The smell of the earth after a storm, the lonesome sound of a train whistle, the red heat from the steel mill furnaces lighting the early morning blackness … these are visions of Kokomo, Indiana, still in my head. Once in awhile I catch myself humming the tune to that old song, How would you like to be with all the folks in Kokomo? — Kokomo, Indiana.

Indiana is heartland, farm country, cornfields, soybeans, and rich fertile earth. It’s Hoosier hysteria, 4-H, Farm Bureau, and long ago, the KKK. It’s memories of going barefoot, hayrides, bonfires, basketball games, and summer camp.

My life now seems like another lifetime, filled with the heat and dust of the Arizona desert. If it rains, traffic grinds to a halt and the oil slick on the pavement sends sirens screaming to accident sites.

In summer, there is never a long steady rain that settles the dust and reaches the deepest tree roots. It blusters a lot, then, for a few minutes, either sprinkles or comes in a torrent and runs off. Farmland is irrigated from canals, and I haven’t tasted a decent vegetable since I moved here.

Phoenix has almost nothing in common with Kokomo except that the same publishing family who owns The Indianapolis Star runs the papers here. I grew up reading the Star every Sunday. It was a welcome relief from the daily Kokomo Tribune. I’d wanted to be a reporter for the Star all my life and had planned to go to Indiana University for a journalism degree before life became so complicated the summer of 1963.

I finally did take a few classes and worked my way up from the obit desk to general assignment reporter. It wasn’t nearly as glamorous as I thought it would be. Reporting is just like any other job, except you have to do it on deadline and work all sorts of impossible shifts. That should make it exciting, I guess, but all it does is give me indigestion and insomnia. My byline reads, Katherine R. Dalton, The Phoenix Daily News, when they give me one.

Chapter 1

1985

The staff at the Phoenix Daily News always knows when the big wigs from Indy are in town because the crew from the facilities department polishes the floors and shines the brass on the doors and banisters. It’s as predictable as the dead calm just before an Indiana tornado.

Hey Dalton! Charlie yelled at me across the newsroom. Where the hell you been? Corny’s been lookin’ for you all day.

Keep your voice down, Charlie, I mumbled to myself as I made my way between the computer tables and chairs.

Charlie Thomas is a researcher for the investigative team at the Daily News. He probably spends more time at the paper than in his own little apartment. The newspaper is his life and his family. I’ve never heard him talk much about anything else.

Charlie is a small man and still looks and sometimes acts like a kid even though he’s well past 40. He has blond hair and a boyish face that frequently has a devilish grin splashed across it. I think his size makes him self-conscious, so in defense he has developed a dangerously wacky sense of humor.

Once, after being yanked from one of his pet investigative projects to work on something for the features department, Charlie put crazy glue on the nosepieces of the feature editor’s prescription sunglasses. The guy came back from lunch red-faced and bellowing to his secretary to get her fat ass out and buy some solvent. He ended up reading copy with a flashlight all afternoon and leaving before dark because his secretary left and never did report back to work. This wasn’t the first time she had been the brunt of his temper, and he’s damn lucky she didn’t file suit after she walked.

Everyone was dying trying to keep a straight face through the whole thing. Charlie was delighted with the results of his little prank and obviously the toast of the newsroom that afternoon.

Corny, Cornelius Dunn, however, is not your family kinda guy. He wasn’t amused. At any rate, he didn’t let on that he knew Charlie did it.

Corny is my editor on dayside police beat. Charlie reports to him too, along with a slew of other reporters he manages to keep going in all directions gathering news for the metro section. He eats all his meals on the run while he works: a doughnut and coffee for breakfast; most often, greasy pastrami on rye for lunch; and lots of nights, pizza with the crew right before going home to bed. I see him eat like this day after day, and he never puts one more pound on that skinny body of his. I’ve offered to exchange metabolism with him many times.

Anyway, Dunn’s hair turned gray by the time he was 30, so for a long time he’s had that look that says, Respect me; I’ve been around here a long time, and besides that I’m very tall. Dunn’s probably 60 now, but he still stays up all night putting the paper to bed. Sometimes I don’t think he even bothers going home. You can’t really tell, though, because his clothes always have that slept-in look.

Everyone calls him Corny, not only as a way around Cornelius, but also because he’s never able to tell a joke without murdering the punch line. I’m sure he knows about the double meaning of the nickname. After 35 years in the news business, it’s nearly impossible to put anything past him.

* * *

I’ve been over at the courthouse. What’s he want? I asked Charlie as I flopped down in the chair beside his desk.

Some edict from Indy about expense accounts no doubt. The top birds from the corn belt flew in today for a board meeting, and it looks like Indiana dung is just about to reach the bottom of Camelback Mountain, Charlie said looking over the top of my head.

I turned to see Dunn heading in my direction. Oh, hell. I said under my breath. I didn’t even get a chance to hit the ladies room.

Better skip it, now. You know what it means when he takes his glasses off, Charlie grinned.

No. What?

It means, my dear, that he really wants to see you squirm when he’s talking to you. See ya; I’ve already had my close up for today. Good luck! Charlie said as he picked up his mug and headed toward the coffee maker.

Dunn stopped moving toward me when Charlie walked away and motioned me into his office.

Oh great. This’ll make my day, I groaned as I got to my feet.

Kate, I’m going to get right to the point, Dunn said as I slid into the green vinyl chair across the desk from him.

You always do, Dunn, I said, trying for humor that fell flat.

I tried to get hold of you all morning. I called the courthouse four times. I finally had to send Reid to follow up on a shooting over on East Van Buren.

It’s not easy to remain calm with Dunn towering over you with his glasses off, which leaves nothing between you and those steel gray eyes; but, somehow, I managed to make words come out of my mouth.

God, Dunn. I’m sorry. I’ve really been having stomach problems lately so I stopped in to see my doctor before going over to the courthouse, I lied. Bella was a doctor, of course, but not the kind I wanted him to think. She’s a psychiatrist.

Ya shudda called, He said without moving his eyes from mine.

I know, Dunn. I will next time.

Listen to me, Kate. You’re a good reporter, but you’re not so good that some hotshot kid out of journalism school can’t beat you out tomorrow or the next day. You’ve been sloughing off lately. You know it, and you know that I know it. Get yourself together, or we’re going to have to talk again soon.

OK, Dunn. I will, I said as I turned to go.

And, Kate, he said.

Yeah.

I really mean that about being a good reporter. Just get with it, that’s all, he said in a softer tone.

Thanks, Dunn, I said as I closed the door and headed down the hall.

I put a cold paper towel to my forehead and looked at myself in the mirror. OK, Dalton, you heard the man. Get with it will ya, I whispered to my reflection. Dunn would really shit if he knew I have another doctor appointment today, I thought as I headed out the back door.

* * *

Kate Dalton, please.

The nurse pronounced my name evenly and distinctly, but I was so engrossed in trying to balance my checkbook as I waited that it took me a minute to recognize it.

After I divorced Sam, I went back to the name Dalton. It made me feel less fragmented. I wanted to be me; not the anonymous Mrs. Carter. Besides, I liked seeing it in print, Katherine R. Dalton, The Phoenix Daily News.

Ms Dalton, the nurse repeated.

I stood up slowly. I wasn’t looking forward to this.

You’ve lost weight, the nurse commented as she efficiently shifted the balance of the scale to register 120 pounds.

Yes, I worked at it, I said.

I was thinking to myself that it was important somehow to indicate that I wasn’t ill or anything; that shedding those pounds had been a conscious decision. It was a stupid thought. I knew the doctor wouldn’t take any time to consider my weight. He probably wouldn’t even look at the numbers the nurse was so carefully recording. Anyway, it was only 15 pounds.

* * *

I’ll never forget my first ever trip to the ob/gyn. My plans for college ended suddenly. Pregnancy. Only 18 and not a clue where to find a doctor without alerting my parents and everyone else I knew in Kokomo. So I got my best friend, Connie, to drive me to Bloomington, home of Indiana University, where I had planned to study journalism.

I.U. Everyone called it the party school. All the serious high school grads went to Purdue. That’s where Sam wanted to go. That was predictable. He’s serious about everything. Not a party bone in his whole body. Sam, the responsible one. I guess I’m lucky he was there for me, and that he was so damned responsible.

I didn’t know the names of any doctors in Bloomington, so I thumbed through the yellow pages. Dr. Leland Proctor.

His tiny upstairs office in a downtown bank building was stifling hot even though it was October. Radiators that hissed and spewed steam every now and then heated it. There were no other patients waiting for the doctor. It was just Connie, me and the nurse behind the desk.

The nurse was about my age now, 40 or so. Efficient. Starched white. There was something sad about her. I sensed it, but didn’t understand until I’d met the doctor. Again the ritual, but this time was the first time. It was over quickly, but it was indelible.

The poor doctor was ill. He looked ghastly. Very white thin frail hands. He put them on my body, his fingers in my body and I cringed. He shook his head.

Feel this, he said as he placed my hand on my abdomen and pushed up from the inside. He shook his head. You’re definitely pregnant. You do understand how you got this way?

I remember feeling so ashamed, guilty; even dirty.

Why didn’t you take precautions? He didn’t wait for an answer.

So young, he said, and walked out of the room.

I’ve been healthy all my life, but still there are always doctors and dentists intruding with their intimate rituals of healing. Preventive medicine they call it. Intrusive medicine, I call it.

I fainted the first time I visited the dentist. No breakfast that day. I opened my mouth and the next thing I knew my head was between my knees and nurses were patting my hand and comforting me. Maybe it was the pregnancy. Maybe it would have happened anyway. I don’t know. Dentistry evidently wasn’t on the list of parental responsibility when I grew up, so I’d never been before this.

Sam and I had to go to a clinic for the state mandated blood test to be married. I fainted dead away after it was over, as I stood next to Sam while he waited to pay the bill at the reception window. I woke up on a hard white cot in a tiny examining room full of gleaming silver instruments and syringes. It almost made me pass out again just seeing where I was.

It was agony when polio shots were administered at school. It was always after lunch, and I would take the long way back to school after walking home to eat and trying to convince my mother I didn’t need the shot.

After the injection I would throw up lunch, and the next day the familiar black and blue would appear on my left arm. It would ache for a week and have a hard lump under it.

Mercifully, the experience of childbirth taught me a few things about pain, how to think about it, how to bear it, how to relax those offending muscles that caused the black and blue. No friendly doctors instructed.

In fact, the doctor who finally cared for me during the pregnancy told me he liked his girls to learn as they went along. I learned the hard way, as most of us did in the 60s, by experience. There were no childbirth classes then. The wisdom of the day was that childbirth is a natural event. Women have been doing this for centuries. What’s to learn?

And now there is Dr. Bella Crandall, psychiatrist. The headaches, the depression, the dreams. If it’s not physical, it’s mental. I don’t know why I continue to keep the appointments. It’s solution du jour. If they can’t cure me with probing, poking, and pills; try talk.

* * *

OK, now, dear, everything off and put this on with the slit up the front,