Design To Kill

By Joshua Holmes

When Graphic Designer Remi Painter gets a freelance logo design job, he is initially thrilled. But when his logo specifications include suspicious requirements and a warning that any talk of the matter will precede dire consequences, Remi is thrust into a tireless search for clues, which leads to signs of illegal inter-corporate ties and dangerous motives of global proportions. Will Remi survive the search or will his design ultimately kill?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joshua Holmes
• Release date: Aug 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312431713

Joshua Holmes

A GRADUATE OF the Pennsylvania State University (M.Ed.), the Edinboro University of Pennsylvania (B.A.), and the Art Institute of York-PA (B.S.), Joshua Holmes has studied the fine arts, design, and writing for over 20 years.The sole proprietor and lead designer of JAHbookdesign, he also specializes in all areas of publishing, graphic design, and illustration (portraiture, animation, and wildlife). He has been commissioned by numerous collectors and authors within the community, and has won several awards in various shows and fairs. He has authored an autobiography, a how to series, and two fiction series about life with epilepsy, seventeen novels to date - The Art of Pastel Mastery, The Art of Colored Pencil Mastery, The Art of Oil Paint Mastery, The Art of Graphite Pencil Mastery, Memory Lapse, Grand Mal, Seizure, Status, Trigger, Design To Kill, Design For Justice, Shattered Lung, Design To Escape, Design For Honor, Design For Power, Design For The Cure, and Painting The Whole Picture: Portrait of an Artist with Epilepsy - all of which are available in print, ebook, and audiobook.He attributes his success to the Lord, and the strength God gives him in order to persist and grow as a more patient and thorough artist and writer. A vision cut in both eyes from brain surgery for epilepsy, and CP in his right side since birth, with the Lord's help, Josh continues to write, to see more detail, and to improve with time.He encourages you to explore and exercise your creative side, and enjoy what the Lord does through it.Visit Joshua Holmes at his professional site jahbookdesign.com and at all online book distributors.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

THE MEETING

WE WERE supposed to meet in this deli that I recently learned was popular, but that I had repeatedly walked by and never visited. While I wasn’t there to critique the location, food, or the architectural layout, as I entered I hoped for a dark corner, a table, and a menu behind which to hide.

Upon taking everything in, I concluded the deli would work. It was a mix of rustic and country folk styles, and, conveniently, was T-shaped. I bought a little something and grabbed the paper list of food items from the surface of a nearby bureau.

We couldn’t afford to draw attention to ourselves. I guess I should say that I couldn’t afford to draw attention to myself, and I feared what might happen to anybody who was seen with me. I especially worried for my friend, Houston, who was to arrive any minute.

Marshall Houston – Houston for short – was the only person I could think to call. I trusted very few people in this world, but, time and again over the years, he proved reliable. He was there in the easy times, the fun times, and the downright hard times. I could have gone on and on about Houston, but it had to wait.

Time was of the essence and I was on edge. From my seat in the corner, in a shadow at the table furthest from the deli register, I lifted my wrist to my face, looked down at my watch, and took a deep breath. Where was he?

I knew Houston worked as a temp on the assembly line at Harley Davidson and was often exhausted upon completing his shift, but still . . .

It was the unknown that got to me more than anything. The thought that trouble lurked, to put it mildly, that men were probably out there charged to kill for the information I had in my computer bag next to me.

Fortunately, the café didn’t hire waiters or waitresses to check in with customers after the original purchases. The manager and two additional employees were busy either taking and filling orders, or wiping down the counters. They were too preoccupied to notice my discomfort.

I was relieved when Houston lumbered over to the table in ripped jeans and a tank top, quiet but concerned. His face was scrunched up in a what gives? kind of way, and his bald head was creased.

Sorry I’m late, Remi.

I just raised my eyebrows. I’m in trouble, bud.

He crossed his arms and pushed the chair back. What do you mean?

Wait ‘til you get a load of this. I pulled my computer from its case, and turned it towards him.

Houston leaned in, squinting. What do we have here, Remi?

I looked around to make sure no one else was looking. My finger trembled as I pointed at the screen. Just press that.

I WAS horrified. And it was my fault he was on Death’s doorstep, in an ER hospital bed so badly beaten I didn’t even recognize him.

The casts, sheets, and bandages didn’t help. His face was a blackish purple, and his arms and legs hung at unseemly angles. If the visible injuries were any indication of the invisible, I imagined the coverings just hid more devastation beneath.

His breathing was shallow, and he barely had a pulse. His monitor beeped quietly but rhythmically – a subtle reminder of the uphill battle Houston faced. I nearly lost it right there.

I couldn’t help but wonder if we hadn’t had that meeting in the deli, and if I hadn’t shown him what had me in dire straights, whether he’d be out riding his bike, at home totally carefree, or working on the line at Harley unharmed.

If it wasn’t Houston, though, it would have been someone else. It would have been just as bad, possibly worse.

The hospital smell that is supposed to connote cleanliness and order, and reassure patients and families grew on me like a fungus, and I shivered.

The iridescent lights almost merged with the greenish pallor of the wall paint, and it created this cold haze that floated between Houston and me. It made the shiver that started in my neck run the full length of my body.

I turned from Houston, after a moment, still shaken. He was out of it, had no idea I was even there, so I left. I needed to shower – as if I could wash this sight off of me.

The doctors said Houston was in a coma. They didn’t know the full extent of his injuries, or how long it would take to recover from them. They couldn’t promise when he’d wake, if he’d wake at all.

The next twenty four hours are critical, the doctors said over and over. There’s nothing you can do.

I wondered if Lela, Houston’s wife, had been notified yet. What a wonderful lady. I dreaded what the news would do to her.

Walking the narrow hallways, wiping away loose tears, I thought