Penance (A Malcom Connally Novel)

By Matthew Moseman

Still dealing with the events following the death of his love, Malcolm Connally reluctantly takes on a new case at the behest of a former classmate.

Holt McCoy is a Nebraska native who made it big as an actor in Hollywood and is looking to launch his own production company with a controversial new film about a fringe religion in the heart of his home state. But when one of his researchers turns up dead while on location, he smells a cover up and asks his old friend, Mac Connally to find out the truth.

When Mac arrives in the seemingly idyllic community of New Galilee, he finds that his every move is the subject of local gossip and that the local sheriff's department is less than welcoming. He finds allies in a spunky female police detective and a Catholic priest while bumping heads with a local street gang and the head of the mysterious religious sect.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Moseman
• Release date: Nov 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311937681

Matthew Moseman

Matthew Moseman began his writing career at the ripe old age of ten when he began writing his first police procedural story. It wasn't good and he quickly left it, but his love of writing continued and improved. He studied theater and creative writing at Central Community College and graduated with a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Theater Degree from Hastings College in 2000.Moseman is the author of four full length novels available in paperback and digital form through Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, and Smashwords.com. His third novel, "Wanderers", was a quarter finalist for the 2013 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award.He currently lives in Columbus with his wife, Amanda, and their five (yes, five) children.

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Penance

By Matthew Moseman

Copyright 2014 Fiveisalright Publishing

Smashwords Edition

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I thought it necessary to preface this book by first and foremost stating that it is a work of fiction. While I am an atheist (or an agnostic, depending on how I feel that morning), it is important for me to state that this book is in no way meant to be an indictment of organized religion. While I did cull from different sources, entities, etc to make up the group called the Freelys in this book, they are nothing but fiction. If I should happen to offend any religious group, be they Mormon, Catholic, a Latter Day Saint, please know that it was not my intention. The group in this book was not meant to represent anything other than an interesting antagonist.

The group in the book was inspired by an actual group (whose name, affiliation, etc I will not mention) but as I did research for this book I borrowed from other documented fringe religious groups. Most of my research was done reading Jon Krakauer’s book Under the Banner of Heaven. This book became an invaluable resource to me when it came to working on this project.

Furthermore, I must also thank one of my oldest friends, Mark Spence, who directed me toward Mr. Krakauer’s book probably four years ago when I first attempted writing this novel. Had it not been for your love of non-fiction as well as your support of my literary endeavors over the years, who knows where my love of writing might be.

While I’m at it, I have to, of course, thank my loving wife Amanda who has always been there for me when I ramble about whatever story ideas are floating in my head and as supported me on the days and nights when I lock myself in the basement to try and bang out my stories. Also, to Nate Marik who has been my chief editor ever since I first put pen to paper in junior high, and to my sister Debi and her husband, Scott, who have also done whatever they can to support my artistic endeavors.

CHAPTER ONE

I was out of my element. There could be no doubt whatsoever that I was somewhere that I did not belong. It was obvious not only to me but to the people that gave me sidelong glances as they walked past me. To a certain extent, it was my fault because I hadn’t gone to any great lengths to try and appear as though I did belong. This was particularly because I wasn’t sure why I was there, but mostly because I was lazy and apathetic.

I was sitting in the lobby of the Hampton Inn and Suites in downtown Omaha. It was a nice hotel to be sure and only a few years old, part of the urban renewal that had followed the new TD Ameritrade ballpark, the new home of the College World series. The entire downtown area had changed, really. Everything was now shiny and vibrant and brimming with vitality.

For the most part, I was somewhat unimpressed. But, to be fair, I was pretty hard to impress those days.

I’d been kept waiting in the lobby for not quite an hour. During that time, I’d read the newspaper (just the sports page, really) and read about the latest celebrity scandals in People Magazine. Most of my time, though, I’d spent smiling and nodding at the people who stared at me as they walked past as though I were some offending insect. Unfashionable blue jeans, beat up sneakers, and a Carhart jacket with tattered sleeves were a rare sight at ten in the morning on a Tuesday in February amongst the business suits, heavy top coats, and leather attaché cases that made their way past me.

To make matters worse, I was getting hungry. I only had five bucks in my wallet so I couldn’t afford to eat breakfast in the hotel restaurant and the clerk at the front desk had been staring me down most of the time I’d been there. Thus, the odds of my swiping a bagel or even an apple were pretty slim.

I was almost ready to pistol the whip the front desk clerk and steal a cream cheese Danish when a concierge appeared and called my name. He smiled graciously and led me to an elevator that took us to the top floor. He didn’t try to engage me in small talk.

There weren’t too many doors on the top floor of the hotel. The concierge knocked discreetly on one and opened it with his master key. He opened the door without stepping inside and waved me in without a word. I shrugged and stepped inside while the door closed behind me.

I found myself the lone occupant of the main room of a penthouse suite. The room was well furnished with two couches and a love seat situated around a glass topped coffee table so that anyone sitting in them could enjoy the lovely Omaha skyline through the large pane glass windows. A dining room with seating for eight was off to the side of the room with papers, an iPad, and two Apple MacBook Pros strewn across it. As nosy as I was, I resisted the urge to snoop, it was a difficult task. After all, I still had no idea why I was there.

Against the opposite wall was a small, well stocked bar complete with an oaken countertop and two bar stools upholstered in dark leather. The liquor was all top shelf and beautiful; the bottles were clean and reflected the lights in the room. They all had metal pourers in them that gleamed brightly. The booze was far more tempting than the documents on the table. I swallowed hard and turned my back to the bar and hoped that no one offered me a drink.

My mouth was watering.

A bedroom door opened near the dining room table. Three people, two men and a woman, entered. They were all better dressed than I—not that hard to do those days—and they all smelled of expensive soaps and colognes. I was glad I had at least bathed and shaved that morning.

It was easy to tell which of three individuals was in charge. He had the biggest smile, the nicest clothes, and I was certain that he had the largest bank account of anyone else in the room.

Malcolm Connally, he said with raised eyebrows and a look of feigned surprise, as though we had bumped into each other in an airport in Kentucky. I knew it was a put on because he was the one who had invited me there. He smiled warmly as he walked up and shook my hand while his friends stayed a few feet behind him.

Austin, I said as I took his hand. I still didn’t like his handshake; overly firm, as though he felt an inappropriate need to assert his superiority.

Whoa, he said with a fake laugh. I told you on the phone, bro, I go by Holt now. There was already an Austin McCoy registered with the Actors’ Guild. I go by my middle name now.

Right, I must have forgotten, I said. It was a lie. I just wanted to get a rise out of him. Also, I couldn’t stand it when people called me ‘bro’.

Austin Holt McCoy was an Omaha darling; the current Local Boy Does Good story. He’d been a high school sports star in basketball and football but had also done well in speech and drama. The summer just before he was to start college he’d gone to a cattle call audition for would be performers and actors for a talent agency and done well. He started out with bit parts on Disney Channel sitcoms and within five years became a real property and world famous.

So what’s it been? Fifteen years? he said with a big smile as gestured for me to sit down.

Give or take.

You look…good. Did you put on some weight?

How nice of you to notice, I said.

Holt didn’t follow up with another question. He just sat across from me with his legs crossed and his arms propped on the back of the couch with a large smile on his face as he smacked on a piece of gum. I wasn’t sure if he was enjoying seeing me after such a long time or if he was being smug and showing off for me. He was dressed in a very expensive looking pair of sweatpants and a thin, matching zip up hooded sweatshirt over what appeared to be a silk or satin tank top. I wondered if he was researching for his next part as a New Jersey douche bag who worked in waste removal of construction.

"So, is there a reason why you asked me down here?’

Yeah, yeah, yeah, he said as he leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. He looked past me to his two associates that were seated at the dining room table behind me. George?

I turned and looked over my shoulder to the gentleman. He was dressed more professionally than Holt while still trying to remain an appearance of being cool and relaxed. He wore a pair of precisely torn and faded denim jeans that had an exquisite crease in each pant leg with a blue V neck shirt under a black sport coat. He’d been absently eying the screen of his MacBook until his name was called. I guessed he was checking how many Twitter followers he had. He casually took to his feet but appeared grateful that he’d finally been called upon.

The reason you’re here, Mr. Connally, is—

Who are you? I interrupted.

Excuse me? scoffed George as he looked upon with disdain for having the gall to interrupt him.

I asked, ‘Who are you?’ As in, ‘Who are you and why should I care?’

George appeared somewhat flabbergasted. My name is George Crane; I’m Holt’s business adviser.

Okay, I said with a pleasant smile. I’d just like to know everyone’s name before we carry on. I looked at the woman and smiled at her. Who might you be?

The woman looked up from the stack of papers she was reading briefly just to acknowledge that she had heard me. Debbie Forbes. I’m Holt’s press agent. Then she turned her attention back to her papers. I used to be more charming. Maybe I’d gotten too fat to be charming anymore.

Please, Mr. Crane, continue, I said.

Right, he said after clearing his throat. I’m not sure if you’re aware, Mr. Connally, but Holt formed his own production company this past year: Real McCoy Films. I stifled a groan. Holt’s been very adamant about the film he wants to make for our first venture. Personally, there were several scripts for romantic comedies we’d been offered that I thought would have been better for us to start with however—

What does this have to do with me? I sighed. Do you want me to try and smack some sense into him?

Across from me, Holt snickered.

Yeah, like you could, Connally.

There it is, I thought. I’d wondered how long it was going to take for the old schisms of high school to come knocking.

Why am I here? I said it to Crane, but Holt answered.

Remember when we were back in high school? he began. There was always some talk going around about some kind of religious cult in a small town west of here, some Podunk town called New Galilee. They were called Freelys, remember? I nodded and shrugged. I’d always thought it was just a bunch of bull when we were growing up, but it always stayed there in the back of my head, ya’ know? Then a few years ago I was home for Christmas and someone at a party was talking about them. When I got back to LA my head started churning out some ideas for a movie about them. Something like a cop has to go in and save some chick from the Freelys or something but first he has to become a Freely for a while. You know what I mean?

Yeah, I said. You want to redo Witness.

What? he said.

You want to remake Witness with the Freelys instead of the Amish, I said.

Not exactly, said Crane from behind me. I turned in my seat again to face him. I was going to have to get the two of them next to each other before I got sick from twisting around a lot. Witness was made almost thirty years ago. This film would be a hell of a lot sexier.

Wouldn’t Witness have been a whole lot better if you’d gotten to see Kelly McGillis’s tits? Holt said with big, eager eyes. It struck me then that Austin Holt McCoy hadn’t changed one bit since we’d left high school. That didn’t seem to be a good thing.

This still doesn’t tell me what I’m doing here.

Crane cleared his throat again. I had a few different screenwriters do up treatments of the story, he said. Holt wasn’t impressed with any of them. He was concerned that they weren’t ‘real’ enough. It was plain from the tone of his voice that Crane didn’t agree with Holt’s opinion of the story treatments. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I saw him roll his eyes as well.

Hey, man, said Holt, making me turn again. I didn’t get into this business to keep lulling people into the belief that the world’s all beautiful and happy. That’s a bullshit idea, man. I want to hold a mirror up to society and force it to face the ugliness of reality. I’m all about verisimilitude, man: the appearance of reality.

There was a slight break, a hesitation between the words verisimilitude and man, like he’d hesitated and almost said, dude, but thought better of it.

So, at Holt’s behest, Crane went on, we sent one of the company’s new associate producers to New Galilee to do some initial research. You know; just ask some questions, get some firsthand accounts and the like. Something to try and base the film on more facts like Holt wants.

Here we go, I said.

Yes, he said with a nod. Our producer was found dead a week ago in New Galilee.

Cause of death?

Accidental drowning; his car was found in a lake with him inside of it.

What did the local police have to say?

Deseret County Sheriff, actually, said Crane. The lake in which he was found was outside of city limits. They found nothing out of the ordinary. There was water found in his lungs, there did not appear to be any marks on the body to indicate foul play. It appears that his car slipped out of gear and rolled into the lake while he was unconscious. His Blood Alcohol Content was well above the legal limit.

But you’re still not completely satisfied with the results of the investigation, I surmised. I’m a very good detective.

Damn right I’m not, said Holt with an emphatic nod. I know those bastards had something to do with it.

The Freelys, you mean, I said.

You’re damn right I mean the Freelys, said Holt as I stood and walked towards the bar. I wasn’t going for a drink; I just wanted to have everyone in the room in front of me for once so I could stop twisting around. I mean, think about it, Connally: It’s a small town in Nebraska. How many murders do they deal with, one every twenty or thirty years maybe? Are they really going to recognize one when they see it if there isn’t a giant bullet hole in the guy’s skull? Plus, it just seems too damn coincidental that not long after he shows up there he winds up dead. His face became stern. I don’t like coincidences.

I stifled another chuckle. Holt had done a movie a year or two earlier where his character, a New York City detective, said that. A lot. It wasn’t a very good movie.

So you want me to look into it.

Yes, said Holt eagerly. George Crane nodded less enthusiastically. Debbie Forbes snorted softly and shook her head without looking up from the papers she’d been going through.

You don’t think it’s a good idea, I said to her.

She took off her reading glasses, looked up from her documents, and regarded me coolly. No, I don’t. From a PR standpoint I feel it’s a very bad idea. Once it gets leaked to the press that a Hollywood actor is sending in mercenaries, vigilantes, and bounty hunters into a small town community to basically spit in the face of local law enforcement, to exact vengeance on his behalf as some kind of vendetta… It won’t go over very well.

Well, Miss Forbes, if it makes you feel any better, I’m not a bounty hunter.

It does not.

I’m also not a mercenary.

But you are something of a vigilante, aren’t you, Mr. Connally?

Excuse me?

Forbes reached down and picked up a leather attaché case. From inside of it she took two paper clipped collections of papers. The papers were all photocopies of newspapers. She removed the paper clip from one stack and began looking through them, reading aloud.

‘Disgraced police officer engages in gunfight,’ she quoted. ‘Local PI in Christmas Eve shoot out leaves two dead.’ Also below that, ‘Four other murders may be related.’ That’s one. She removed the second clip and went through that stack. ‘PI takes on local racketeer.’ ‘Omaha PI goes on crusade to find lover’s killer.’

She threw the papers on the table and glared at me.

Listen, what you need to understand about those particular cases is—

Mister Connally, are you or are you not hired by independent parties to placate their individual goals and needs?

I am.

That makes you a mercenary in my book. With that, she turned her back to me and went back to her forms and documents. That part of the conversation was obviously over.

Listen, Connally, said Crane, are you interested or not?

Holt McCoy looked up at me from the couch like a child waiting for Santa to appear with a new bicycle. I groaned softly as I stepped closer to the window and took in the view of TD Ameritrade Ballpark with the thumb of my left hand pressed into my cheek while the other fingers rubbed my chin and lips.

I don’t know, I said.

If it’s a matter of money… said Holt, letting the statement trail off and hang in the expensive hotel suite.

It’s not that, I said. It’s a matter of feathers being ruffled that don’t generally like being ruffled.

How do you mean? said Crane.

To a certain degree, Miss Forbes does have a point, I said. Debbie’s head turned and at the mention of her name and she stared at me. She was clearly surprised I’d given her any kind of support. Cops don’t like outsiders telling them they’re wrong about anything; especially small town cops. Then there’s the Freelys. If these guys really are as shady as some of those old rumors made out to be then they’ve got to have some kind of leverage to protect them or something.

But hey, maybe I’m wrong and the Freelys aren’t involved in it at all, said Holt as he stood and walked over to me. All I want is the truth, Connally. Then his demeanor changed. His face took on a grim bearing, his posture straightened, and he put a firm hand on my shoulder.

Will you help us? Even his voice had changed.

Jesus, he was fucking acting.

Look, Aus—Holt, I stammered, are you sure I’m the right guy for this? I mean, aren’t you connected to a major movie studio or something in some way? A place that maybe has a big time detective agency with an entire staff of investigators working for it?

Yeah, but they won’t believe in it, said Holt, sounding oddly sincere and genuine. I need someone that I can trust.

I shot him a dubious look.

McCoy, didn’t you remind me for a month that I didn’t have a mommy after my mother died?

He laughed and shrugged. C’mon, Connally, he said with a chuckle, that was when we were kids. Please do this for me. I’ll pay you more than your usual fee and give you an expense account. I’ll even give you a big retainer!

Holt! shouted Crane. We never discussed anything like that!

Shut up, Georgie! McCoy snapped at him. We’re going to do this and this is how we’re going to do it! Then to me, Please, Mac?

I felt the weight of everyone’s eyes upon me. Holt was staring at me pleadingly, George Crane was looking put out and frustrated as he alternated his gaze between me and Holt, and then Debbie Forbes was eyeing us curiously over the papers in her hands. No pressure.

I’ll think about it, I said.

CHAPTER TWO

So the almighty Holt McCoy wants to hire you, eh? said Trey with a grin.

Yep, in all his Holtish glory, I said with a sour look on my face.

Is he as dreamy in real life as he is on TMZ? Or in his role as hard-nosed cop turned single father of twins in the movie, Father of the Law?

My knees buckled and I lost myself in his eyes, I said, deadpan.

We were seated near the front door of a bar called The Dive. Things hadn’t been going well for me professionally as of late. Despite the last bit of press I’d received that Debbie Forbes had thrown in my face, business had slowed down dramatically. To be fair, though, I’d found myself turning down jobs because I just didn’t feel like it. I had too much brooding and wallowing and self-loathing to do. Sadly, that doesn’t pay well and I found myself in danger of having my utilities shut off. To make some quick cash, I’d gotten a job doing security at a trendy nightclub on the west side of town. The pay wasn’t great but they paid me in cash and let me drink on the cheap or even for free. I worked most nights just checking IDs and tossing the occasional drunk out of the building. Every once in a while there’d be an actual fight. I enjoyed those. I wondered what that said about me.

You turned down the job? said Trey.

It’s not that I turned it down, I said. It’s that I haven’t taken it yet.

Whatever, said Trey with a dismissive shake of his head. He took a sip of beer and grimaced. Trey had sworn off nearly all domestic beers, but the place I was working served nothing but the usual, watered down, American fare. He was suffering to just hang out with me while I fought to stay awake on a slow Tuesday night. I was having a beer, too. It wasn’t exactly kosher for a door guy to be drinking on the job, but neither the owner of the place nor I minded all that much. What I want to know is why didn’t you just take the job right away?

I don’t know, I said with a shrug. It’s not like I don’t need the money, because I do. Something about it just doesn’t sit well with me.

The job or the client?

Both, I said with a snort. I really don’t know if I feel like going to New fucking Galilee, a place I once called, ‘The Armpit of Nebraska’, for a few days to ask people questions about what sounds like a pretty cut and dry incident. Plus, I just have this feeling that McCoy won’t be satisfied unless I find some kind of connection between the kid’s death and the Freelys.

What else?

It’s Austin McCoy, I said as I drained my beer and signaled to one of the waitresses to bring me fresh beers for Trey and myself. There were a couple of times during the meeting where he really had to impress upon me that he was better than me; that he was still the Homecoming King and all of that other bull.

Old habits die hard, said Trey.

Yeah. And he also seemed more…intense than I remember.

Intense?

Yeah, like, maybe he was a little coked up or something.

I, for one, am shocked to hear than an individual so prominent in the motion picture industry may be using a controlled substance.

Perish the thought, I said as our waitress, Carly, returned with our beers. She was a cute, lithe yet busty little thing, wearing low riding jeans and a low cut pink tank top with spaghetti straps that fit her quite well and showed off her navel. It was quite nice to look at.

She set our beers down on the table and gave Trey a polite smile and a nod. To me, she gave a wink and a smile before brushing her hips against me as she made her way back to check on other customers. She had a very nice gait; the back was just as good as the front.

She knows we’re staring at her ass, doesn’t she, said Trey.

Yep.

I’m not a trained investigator, he said, but it appears to me that she is sexually attracted to you.

That may be.

And do you share this feeling?

That may be.

You ask her out yet?

Nope.

Alex?

Yep.

We were both quiet for a bit while that hung in the air.

You know, Mac, said Trey, it’s probably not in your best interest as a struggling private investigator to arbitrarily turn down work. I’m speaking both professionally and financially.

I know.

And I’m going to guess that this bouncer gig isn’t exactly cutting it.

No, it isn’t.

We thought on that for a moment.

Going to New Galilee then?

I guess so, I replied.

Good, said Trey. I suppose you’re going to have to quit working here then.

Most likely, I said as Carly walked past. She seemed to have a rather lecherous look in her eyes as she wiggled her body at/for me.

Pity, said Trey.

Yep.

CAPTER THREE

I woke late the next morning with a hangover and called George Crane. He was pleased that I