Average Joe

By Christopher J. Thomasson

In the mid-sized city of Roseland, Texas, private investigator Joseph Beck finds himself haunted by a childhood tragedy. The memories of it plague his sleep and threaten to overwhelm him during his waking moments. But Joe soon discovers that he has been bestowed with a rare gift, a sixth sense that allows him to see into the spirit realm. This gift, however, is misunderstood, and he often sees it as a curse.

Joe's life takes an unexpected turn when he becomes the target of a serial killer with a personal vendetta...a vendetta that not only wants to see Joe dead, but wants to torment his mind in the process. His investigation with the local police takes him down a twisting, turning path that forces him to confront his own internal demons.

As he delves deeper into the case, Joe confides in a local pastor who helps him come to terms with his abilities and with his help, the search for the killer brings Joe closer and closer to his own spiritual awakening: he realizes that his supposed curse is, in fact, a gift from God. With this newfound understanding, Joe sets out to find the killer before everything he loves is destroyed.

As the tension rises, Joe's journey takes readers on a thrilling roller coaster ride of suspense. The colorful characters, a twisting-turning plot, and breathtaking ending will leave readers wanting more. This debut novel by Christopher J. Thomasson is a powerful exploration of the human experience and the unseen forces that shape our lives.

Average Joe, a thrilling roller coaster ride of suspense, is the debut novel by Christopher J. Thomasson. Played out in the mid-sized city of Roseland, Texas, Average Joe delivers colorful characters, a twisting, turning plot, and a breathtaking ending that will leave readers wanting more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher J. Thomasson
• Release date: Nov 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311723697

Christopher J. Thomasson

Christopher J. Thomasson was born in Honolulu, Hawaii in 1972. His family permanently settled in the piney woods of East Texas when he was two years old. He discovered a love for reading and writing at a very young age and until recently, only ever wrote for himself, his family, and his closest friends.In April 2013, at the age of 40, Christopher suffered a mild heart attack while on the tennis court. Within a couple of days, he was undergoing triple-bypass surgery. Because of his love for tennis and the increased active lifestyle the sport provided, the doctors informed him of a miracle–with the clotting in his veins, his heart created new vessels to transport blood to those areas of the heart that were being depleted...and as a result of those new vessels, his heart had sustained no damage!As a result of this experience, Christopher realized that he has more to add to this life than merely existing–he has stories to share.

Book preview

Prologue

For the third time that night, Joe fell.

The broken ribs grate together and each time the pieces touch, a flaming pain shoots up his right side, almost causing him to faint. He gasps and spasms involuntarily, the electric spark almost knocking him flat on his back. He clutches his side in a vain attempt to keep the shards of bone from moving and struggles to push himself to his knees and then his feet. As bad as his side hurts, the pain doesn’t compare with the physical and emotional anguish and exhaustion his body endured through the course of the past couple of days.

Rushing rainwater presses against his feet, threatening to knock him to the hard blacktop road again. As he trudges up the incline, a lone truck passes. It doesn’t stop to help him, but continues on its way; its brake lights never flared. The deluge of rain soon obscures it from sight, but the taillights remain, suspended above the ground like demonic crimson eyes. As the truck crests the hill the lights wink out, leaving him standing alone in the pouring rain.

The driver either didn’t see him or didn’t care. That was ok by Joe; his destination—Conner’s Hill Baptist Church—is only a few more yards ahead and he’s already soaked. The only relief a ride from a stranger would give would be the brief respite from the pain of walking. Each heavy footfall sends a new stab of pain up his side. Lifting his eyes from the wet asphalt in front of his feet, he can see the lighted church sign at the top of the hill. A few more yards? No way, he thinks - More like a million miles away. Maybe the ride wouldn’t have been such a bad idea after all.

He just hopes that Sam is there.

If Sam isn’t there? Joe doesn’t know what he’ll do—if there were ever a night that he needed a friend, tonight is that night. It’s Halloween, so what better night for a church pastor to stay up late praying for his flock? Sam has to be there.

Joe’s eyes turn down to his feet again as he continues up the street. He dodges floating limbs and trash with every painful step. Lighting flares behind him, and his stretched shadow dances in front of him like a distorted black doppelganger. As his eyes readjust from the bright strobe of light, a clap of thunder shakes the ground.

Like a rifle shot, a large tree limb snaps and crashes through a window in one of the houses across the street. The sound of breaking glass shatters through the night but the symphony of the storm quickly swallows it. Lights in the house flicker on as the inhabitants wake to inspect the damage. Joe plods on. The hill, like his dim shadow, stretches to infinity before him by the power of the yellow streetlights behind him.

Lightning flares again and Joe stops cold in his tracks. The afterimage of a figure, briefly brightened by the lightning, burns in his eyes. The figure appeared with the lightning about fifty yards ahead of him and as the flare of light diminished, the figure disappeared—cocooned by darkness and rain.

The ghostly figure was familiar. He had seen it before—on several occasions in fact—but that didn’t diminish the fact that seeing it here and now frightened him. He had first seen the figure

(It’s an angel, Joe—just call it what it is! He has a name too! He told you his name!)

more than twenty years ago, and try as he might, that first memory was both one to cherish—and one he wished he could forget.

Joe drew closer to the church and stepped onto the northern-most corner of the blacktop parking lot. At the front of the church, the illuminated sign spilled weak light onto the rain-soaked ground. Streaks of lightning flashed through the sky again and the heavenly figure reappeared; this time, he remained standing in the dim light and did not disappear.

Azrael waited for Joe to approach. He pointed toward the front door of the church and with an echoing voice that drowned out the violence of the hovering storm, the angel repeated the words Joe first heard all those years ago, He’s waiting for you, Joe. Accept Him and you will clearly see.

Joe turns toward the church, expecting to see someone standing on the small porch, but the entryway is devoid of anything but glistening rainwater. He turns back to the mysterious angel and like so many times before, Azrael is gone. If Joe had never seen the phantom figure before, he would have thought this occurrence was nothing but a figment of his imagination, brought on by the state of his body and the current emotional struggles of his suffering mind.

Joe looks back down the hill behind him where his smashed car sits several hundred yards away. The car is hidden by curtains of rain. He can’t believe he found the strength to walk up that steep incline. He hears a wheezing sound and realizes that it’s his own breath. He’s afraid that one of those ribs has punctured his lung.

Turning back to the church, he doesn’t think he has enough strength to traverse the remaining distance to the steps leading to the front doors. With the last bit of energy he can muster, he forces himself forward, one foot in front of the other. He stumbles up the three steps and falls in a heap on the cold concrete floor. His vision spins; through the twirling images, the front door of the church cracks open and there stands his friend, Sam.

Joe? Sam rushes to his side, helps him up, then half drags him into the church. Joe! Joe! Sam shouts, patting Joe’s cheeks the way he’s seen it done in countless movies. What happened, Joe?

Joe slumps against him, his consciousness slowly waning. Before he drifts off, he says, I need to see, Sam. I need to see...

The dream, like the incessant rain, floods his mind.

The dream blurs by like a road traveled at the speed of sound. In a blink, his mind fast-forwards right to the end—to the body of his little sister, lifeless, lying like a ragdoll in Azrael’s arms—where everything slows down to normal.

Then something strange happens. Something that Joe has never seen before. Azrael begins to change. The once golden skin turns pasty white and transparent. Veins, dark as night, appear through the paper-thin flesh. Clumps of his golden hair fall onto the angel’s shoulder and chest where they shrivel and smolder as if touched by an invisible flame. Azrael’s eyes, once as blue as the ocean, turn oily black.

The thing shivers in pain and then rears back its misshapen head and howls to the sky. While the head is back and the mouth is open, the thing’s gums move and pulse, as if boiling, around the teeth that once belonged to the angel. As the scream continues to echo, internal pressure in the gums pushes each tooth out of its socket. The empty hole quickly fills with a foaming, pulsing yellow ichor.

The howl turns to a gurgling scream as the creature begins to choke on teeth and fluid. It coughs, spraying the contents of its mouth everywhere. Joe feels a tooth bounce off his cheek. He can feel drops of the nasty viscous liquid slowly running down his face. But what’s worse, a glob of it has landed on his sister’s forehead. He watches in horror as it bubbles and smolders her tender, lifeless skin.

Suddenly, the tormented howl of the creature ends - as if its vocal chords snap apart within its throat. The thing’s head cocks to the side and its eyes turn toward Joe. It’s twisted, grimy claw reaches toward him and with a guttural voice staunched by globs of phlegm, it says, He’s waiting for you…

Before those knobby, bony fingers can touch him, Joe wakes screaming.

Chapter One

Ten Years Ago…

The state school’s not so bad. At the very least, Arthur Williams has a roof over his head to protect him from the rain and three full meals in his belly every day. But when the news came that his best friend, Terry, is leaving, he suddenly wants nothing more than to be out of there too. Until that moment, the word freedom never crossed his mind. Until that moment, the state school protected him in a shroud of false comforts—the three daily meals, a handful of other kids his own age, and a warm bed (even if the mattress is thin and he can feel the springs poking through it as he sleeps). But all that is nothing without his best friend.

His best friend is leaving.

The thought fills his mind for days. He doesn’t understand why Terry would want to leave. Why did a foster family choose Terry when there are so many other kids here that are better behaved and a whole lot more lovable (in that way children can be lovable)? Terry was anything but lovable.

And what did Terry do to secure his departure? Good behavior! At least, that’s what Terry told him. For weeks on end, Terry made a decided effort to remain out of trouble and on his best behavior. But Arthur could see through Terry’s charade. His change in temperament was a facade - a beautiful exaggeration of architecture that only masks the straight lines and hard angles of the building within. Terry did his best to explain to Arthur why he needed to get out. He only did it as a means to an end - to get away and maybe, just maybe, gain the freedom to do whatever he wanted.

Did he intend to stick with his new foster family? No. He concluded with, You’ve got to get out of here too, Arty. Terry is the only one that calls him Arty. Anyone else that tried to call him Arty would spend the next ten minutes stifling the bleeding in his or her nose or mouth. We can really have some fun together if we’re both out.

The plan began to form. Like Terry did before him, Arthur would reform and do his best to get out of this place as soon as possible.

When Arthur sets his mind to something, it’s a done deal and the speed in which his outlook changed toward the state orphanage happened over night. As the bell sounds for morning assembly and breakfast, he realizes that the day-to-day structure of activities is, in actuality, a complete bore. So what if he has a bed to sleep in? So what if he has three meals a day? The only excitement here is, and has always been, what Terry and Arthur manufactured. Once Terry delivers the news that he is leaving, all Arthur wants is what is beyond the confines of the chain link fence that pens him and his fellow juveniles.

Freedom.

Arthur wants - no, needs - freedom.

* * *

Terry left the following month.

They stand out on the pea-gravel circle drive in front of the orphanage’s main entrance. Mr. Walker, the orphanage headmaster, lurks just behind Arthur’s right shoulder. The August sun envelopes the trio in scorching heat that brings tears of sweat to the surface of their skin. There is no wind and the East Texas humidity makes them long for the nearest air-conditioned room.

Terry’s new foster parents pull up in a big black, shiny Suburban. His new foster dad spills out of the driver’s seat, trots lightly around the vehicle, plucks Terry’s lone suitcase up off the rocky drive, and tosses it into the back of the vehicle. The rear gate opens upward like the gaping maw of a dragon. For a fleeting moment, temptation, like water through a busted damn, floods through Arthur. He wants to jump into the back of that great big vehicle and hope against hope that his attempt to stow away goes unnoticed. Then Terry’s new family would suddenly become his new family. Terry’s foster dad steps away from the rear of the Suburban and the back gate closes on its own, locking away any idea of escape that Arthur might have had.

As the two boys hug and say their goodbyes, Terry slips a piece of paper into Arthur’s hand. Mr. Walker steps forward and snatches the slip of paper away as if he expects it to contain secret passwords to his bank account.

Terry, bold now that he is leaving, steps up to Mr. Walker and holds out his hand for the paper. It’s just my new address, sir. So Arthur can write me. He says it quietly and calmly but the menace in his voice doesn’t go unnoticed by either Arthur or Mr. Walker.

Mr. Walker opens the note, reads the contents, and clears his throat when he notices that Terry’s new foster parents are giving him strange looks. He clears his throat a second time and places the address into Terry’s outstretched palm. Mr. Walker said, You can never be too careful… The words fade as he realizes that anything he adds would seem trite over a small scrap of paper.

Terry hands the address back to Arthur and smiles. For the first time, they both feel as if they have won a small victory over the otherwise unshakable headmaster.

Arthur knows that once Terry and his new foster parents drive away, Mr. Walker will take the scrap of paper with Terry’s address and he’ll never see it again. He opens the piece of paper and studies the address. He reads it once, and then reads it again to set it in his memory forever.

Arthur and Terry hug again and the younger boy (if only by a few months, he always reminds himself) watches the older boy slide into the rear passenger seat of the suburban. The door closes, trapping him inside the giant, black beast. The vehicle slowly rolls down the driveway and then turns left on Hideaway Drive. Arthur watches until it disappears over a hill. For the briefest of moments, he is afraid this was the last time he would ever see Terry.

Arthur likes maps and enjoys studying them in his free time. He has a detailed map of the county burned into his head and knows (even though he has never seen but a handful of roads here) where every road leads. On that mental map, a little red dot moves along the lines of road, marking the Suburban’s progress. In a little over a mile, the Suburban will turn right onto the feeder that runs parallel to Interstate 20. The exit for Roseland is five miles west where they will then turn the vehicle south on State Highway 271. Nine miles later, his friend will pass over the imaginary line marking the city limits.

As the crow flies, his friend will only be a little over twenty miles away.

Arthur lowers his head. It might as well be a thousand miles.

A heavy hand stretches strong fingers around the back of his neck and Mr. Walker directs him back toward the facility. And just as Arthur suspected, once they cross the orphanage’s threshold, the headmaster takes Terry’s address from Arthur’s clenching fingers, tears it to shreds, and dumps the pieces into the trash.

* * *

Arthur does just as he and Terry had discussed. Overnight, he becomes the little boy that any parent would be proud to call their son. And for a little while, he starts to feel better about himself and as the days stretch into weeks, he actually grows to like the person he is pretending to be.

Terry and Arthur stay in contact by writing each other frequently. With Mr. Walker in the picture, Arthur is surprised he gets his letters at all. But he realizes quickly that Walker is not standing idly by. Each morning after he receives a letter, he wakes to find that the letter is gone.

And he’s certain who the culprit is. On those particular mornings, Mr. Walker is happy and goes out of his way to converse with Arthur—all the while wearing a half-smirk and a knowing twinkle in his eye. It’s during these times that Arthur wishes Mr. Walker would die. It’s during these times when he almost - almost - reverts from the good boy image he has built to his true self. The self that hates. The self that gets even. The self that brings justice.

The pattern never falters. The morning after Arthur receives a letter from Terry, it is gone. And like the note with Terry’s address, he learns to commit the important parts of those letters to memory so that they will never be forgotten. On one occasion, the letter contains Terry’s telephone number. That entire evening before bed, Arthur studies each number repeatedly until, as he’s falling to sleep, images of the phone number flash through his dreams. He sleeps easy even though he knows the letter will be gone by morning; the telephone number is safe and secure in his mind.

* * *

Before his thirteenth birthday, three couples stop in to visit with him (and some of the other kids, too), but Arthur thinks they spent a lot more time with him than with any of the other kids. It’s encouraging. The parade of couples continues for weeks on end and Arthur starts to believe that for one reason or another, he is unfit to be someone’s child.

The discouragement builds and the old thoughts start to creep in again. His old self wants to be back in control. A kid named Pete carries an armload of papers and books and Arthur almost puts his foot out to trip him. A girl named Julie loves to swing in the playground. She wears her long hair in pigtails and enjoys leaning back in the swing to look up at the sky. Arthur’s tempted to run up behind her, yank on one of those strands of hair, and pull her off the swing.

But he doesn’t do any of those things. He forces that other self to remain hidden for as long as it takes to get out of here and placed with a foster family.

Then the day came.

Their name is Mitchell. He’s a deacon at a local church and she is a nurse at Roseland Medical Center. Arthur likes them immediately and not because all the other potential couples are white and the Mitchells just happen to be as dark as he is. The couple radiates a gentle calm and honest interest in Arthur. He realizes that these qualities are missing from all the other couples that had visited with him. Witnessing these parental qualities makes him realize that they were missing from the other couples. This entire time Arthur felt that he had been the problem when in actuality, all those couples were the problem; they were not ready for foster care.

The Mitchells are.

Within a week of their meeting, Arthur again finds himself standing on the pea-gravel circle drive outside the front door of the state orphanage. Mr. Walker stands beside him, his strong hand on the back of Arthur’s neck. A red four-door Mercury tops the hill and slows as it approaches the main entrance.

The hand on Arthur’s neck tightens slightly and Mr. Walker speaks. His words hiss through his teeth and sound snake-like, I’m almost positive I’ll be seeing you again real soon.

Under normal circumstances, Arthur would shrug the comment away. He never allowed other people’s comments to get under his skin. For such a young boy, it’s an adult-like quality to have and it’s something that helps define his character as he grows into manhood. But today was different. He remembers standing in this very spot a few months ago, watching as his best friend stood up to Mr. Walker to retrieve the piece of paper with his new address on it.

Arthur reaches to his neck and grabs Mr. Walker’s wrist. As a rule, Arthur’s slight frame would be no match against the bigger man, but as he turns to look up at Mr. Walker, the administrator’s eyes widen like saucers. Arthur pulls the man’s clammy hand from his neck and turns toward him.

Mr. Walker jerks his hand away as if he’s touched a hot stove.

Arthur says, If I do ever see you again…

He takes a step toward Mr. Walker who, in turn, takes a tentative step backward. His heel strikes the front lip of the bottom step and he waivers slightly in an attempt to keep from falling backward.

…you’ll be looking at my smiling face as I’m watching you die.

The Mitchells’ Mercury stops behind him. He hears the doors open and the soft pressure of compacting stones as the Mitchells step out of the car.

Arthur smiles and Walker’s face drains of blood. Goodbye, Mister Walker.

Arthur turns his back on the state school administrator and joins, however briefly, his new family.

Chapter Two

Three years ago…

Joe? Joe! It’s time to wake up. He feels the sheet and comforter slide away and reluctantly opens his eyes. April’s head hovers over him; her long chestnut hair just barely reaches his face, tickling his skin. She smiles and for the briefest of moments, he believes that the smile is genuine.

He turns his back to her and shrugs at the blankets in an attempt to cover up again. Why do you have to be so happy to wake me up every morning?

She jerks the covers off him again and pinches him on the back of the thigh.

Woman! He says lightly as he tries to slide away from her. Leave me alone.

She pinches him again before he can get too far away, this time on his behind. Oh, you know you love the attention.

Ouch! He grabs her by the arms, spins her onto her back, and pins her beneath him. If she’s making a conscious effort to be nice this morning, then he thinks he can too.

She laughs as her hair spills over her face and into her mouth. She tries to blow it away but several strands remain trapped by the moisture on her lips. Let me up, Joe! She thrashes beneath him but he won’t budge; he outweighs her by fifty pounds.

He leans forward and kisses her on the tip of her nose; it’s something he hasn’t done in quite some time. What’s the magic word? he asks as she continues to struggle beneath him.

Please! Please, Joe! Let me up. She tries to buck him off but he continues to hold fast. She laughs uncontrollably and her face flushes scarlet.

Nope, that’s not the magic word, he tells her.

She stops thrashing and looks up at him seriously. Okay, okay, she says. Here’s the magic word...

What? he asks, grinning mischievously.

The magic word is... She pauses dramatically.

Yes?

"The magic word is: bacon!"

Joe’s laughter fills the tiny apartment and it’s a delight to her ears. It’s something she hasn’t heard enough. Well, the magic word isn’t bacon. But it’s pretty darn close, so I’ll give in this time. He rolls off and lies beside her on the bed. April, arms now free, clutches her stomach as she continues to laugh intermittently.

When the laugh spasms finally abate, she rolls onto her side to face him. His brown eyes are so dark they’re almost black. She remembers one night when they were dating. He took her to a baseball game down in Houston and the stadium lights reflected in his dark eyes, looked like a galaxy of stars on the black carpet of space. He hasn’t changed much over the years. His hair is just as dark as it was when she first met him. Still no grey in his fine hair although a few are starting to show up in the stubble on his jaw and chin. She gently touches her hand to his chin and kisses him on the corner of his mouth.

Baby?

Yes, honey?

She pauses. He hasn’t called her honey in a long time. As old fashioned as it sounds, she likes how it flows over his lips. But the moment has passed now. She slowly shakes her head and glances away. Nothing.

April finally moves off the bed and rushes to the bathroom mirror. Oh, good Lord, Joe. You really messed my hair up good. She glances at her watch and realizes that she is going to be late for work if she doesn’t get a move on. Snatching her brush off the counter, she furiously runs it through her tangled hair.

Joe sits on the edge of the bed and rubs the stubble on his chin. He watches his wife straighten her scrub top and brushes out a few imaginary wrinkles with her hand. She walks back into the bedroom and retrieves her shoes from the floor next to the dresser.

She asks, Would you mind picking up Monica tonight after you get off work?

Yeah, I guess so. What’s the occasion? Study group again?

She pauses with her leg half way up in the air and her finger stuck in the back of the shoe and Joe briefly thinks that she looks like a stork. She says, Are you serious? You really don’t know?

He shakes his head. Know what?

Joseph Allen Beck—today’s your birthday!

* * *

April finishes donning her shoes and tries to make it appear that she hasn’t seen the shadow that suddenly falls across her husband’s face. Why couldn’t their entire marriage be light and fun like this morning? What happened over the past few years to turn him so dark and brooding? She knows the answer. Joe’s problems started a long time ago—long before she met him.

But lately, the problems were compounding exponentially and she believes she knows the root cause.

She sneaks a glance at the nightstand on Joe’s side of the bed; sitting on a coaster is an empty glass. Behind it stands a large, half-empty bottle of whiskey. Neither were there when she went to bed the night before.

Today is Joe’s thirtieth birthday and she has only been a part of his life for six of those years; five as husband and wife. In all those years, she has never goaded Joe about his past. She just hoped that some day he would be able to confide in her and tell her what happened instead of drowning whatever it is that plagues him in alcohol.

Just as quickly as the shadow had covered his face, it is now gone but April still feels the weighted tension that floods the room. Who else is coming over? he asks.

Just a couple of your buddies from work—Chris, Russell, and Billy. Then there’s Monica, Sarah, and Russell’s wife—I forget her name…

Jessica.

Yeah, that’s right, Jessica. I’ve only met her that one time but she seems really sweet. She and Russell make a great couple. The darkness is back on Joe’s face again and she starts regretting bringing up his birthday at all. As much as she loves him, she’s begun questioning herself as to why she ever got involved with a man with such a secret past. Couples are supposed to share, right? Even the bad stuff?

Joe stands and crosses to the bathroom but before he can close the door, April catches him by the hand and stops him. I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to upset you. She pulls him close and hugs him. For just a moment, he stands there with his arms limp at his side. Then his arms come up and wrap around her as he returns her hug. She notices the slight hesitation in his response. She also notices that his display of affection is lifeless. He was off somewhere else in his head.

That’s okay, he says. It’s not your fault. It’s just - there are some things about me…

Yes? she asks. Was he about to confide in her what he’d been hiding all these years? Her breath caught in her throat as she waited.

Her eyes lock on his and he returns her gaze. His lips lift heavily in an attempt to smile, but the smile waivers. He looks away and she feels with each passing second the revelation of his past sliding away with his stare.

He finally says, You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.

Why don’t you try me?

He kisses her on the forehead and pulls her closer, resting his chin on the top of her head while he hugs her. Maybe someday.

She pulls away. I’ve really got to get to work.

Okay.

Breakfast is on the stove.

Thanks.

Have a good day at work.

I will. Love you, he says, and this time she can see the emotion reach his eyes.

Love you, too.

She stays long enough to watch him go into the bathroom and hear him turn on the water to the shower.

* * *

Before she leaves for work, she takes a couple of seconds to scratch out a note for Joe on a pink, three-inch square Post-It Note. She folds it in half and leaves it on the plate she set out for his breakfast. She has to smile. The note is something she and Joe did quite often—well, used to do. Until now, neither of them have done much communicating at all.

At first, the notes were daily reminders to each other of their love. That’s the way it started out. Recently though, the notes had become a sort of competition between the two of them. She started it by putting a note on a tiny piece of paper in between the folded and worn blank check he kept in one of the pockets of his billfold. Curious to see how long it would take him to find it; she wrote the date on the bottom left corner. He found it a few days later when he had to write a check at a local restaurant because he had lost his debit card.

She left more hidden notes for him over the course of the next few weeks but then she started finding notes of her own. A gum wrapper with the words thinking of you written in Joe’s neat, blocky print. It was dated three days earlier. And so the competition began and they both took pleasure in not only the finding of the notes, but the hiding as well.

So far, the longest date was three weeks and two days. That particular record was hers. She had tucked that note away in the vanity mirror attached to the sun visor in Joe’s car. He never used that mirror and that little note would still (probably, anyway) be hidden there if one of Joe’s friends hadn’t needed to use the mirror to fish an eyelash out of his eye.

Joe recounted the discovery to her a few days later and she laughed so hard that she hyperventilated. Apparently, to this day, Joe’s friends still tease him about their little love notes.

She smiles at the sweet memory—memories that are coming fewer and farther between—almost as if the little notes had become something to do out of habit or necessity rather than love. She snatches her purse off the counter, snags her keys off the peg on the wall, and heads out the door to her car. It’s time to go to work.

Chapter Three

Joe reads and re-reads the note April left. He really enjoys finding those little gems; they are a light in an otherwise dark existence. Sometimes she sticks them in one of his socks, or in his wallet, or even wrapped around the tube of toothpaste in the bathroom. He usually found them within a day or two and it was the same for her. He would write a little note to her and leave it in her purse or in the little cubby in her car where she stores her sunglasses. At the moment, April thinks she is the record holder with the note that she placed between the cover and the vanity mirror in his car, but she is wrong. He hid a note almost three months ago and she has yet to find it. Joe is particularly proud of that one.

He finishes breakfast and clears his plate from the table. He picks up the note from this morning and slides it in the front pocket of his shirt as he walks back into the bedroom, to the bureau that holds pictures of his parents and little sister. Next to the portrait of his parents is a triangular shadowbox with a folded flag inside as well as his father’s police badge. Joe joined the police academy right out of college, just as his father had done. Unlike his father, Joe had only been able to stand the job for just over three years. He prefers the private sector to public service. And with his unique ability, the less people he meets is for the better.

Joe looks away from the reminders of his parents and opens the top, middle drawer of the bureau. He reaches in the drawer and retrieves his Glock 9mm semi-automatic pistol where it lays next to the near-empty bottle of whiskey. He snaps the pistol into the holster attached to the belt around his waist. He also retrieves his laminated security identification badge and hangs it from the same pocket containing April’s note. He debates on grabbing the alcohol, and downing the remainder of that dark-golden warmth.

He closes the drawer—for some reason drinking doesn’t seem like the best of choices this early in the morning.

His shift at the bank doesn’t start until ten o’clock so he has some time to spare. He retrieves his keys off the same rack that had held April’s and heads to his car. Fifteen minutes later, Joe pulls in to The Snappy Shack convenience store where Monica works.

He enters the store and waves to Monica. Behind him, the door slowly closes with an annoying whistle that probably wakes every dog for miles.

Dang-it, Monica. Your boss ever going to fix that thing? He glances up at the hydraulic arm attached to the top of the door—the source of all the noise.

Are you kidding? He won’t even fix the women’s toilet. It runs constantly.

Joe meanders around the store, picks up a few snacks off the shelves, grabs a couple of waters out of the cooler, and then places them on the counter in front of Monica.

Six, ninety-five, she says, taking his debit card and scanning it into her register. So, are you giving me a ride to the big event tonight?

If you want to call it that, but yeah, I’ll give you a lift. He points at the books on the counter in front of her and asks, How are the studies going?

Monica is studying for her RN license and is nearing graduation. She met April on clinical rotation through the emergency room a year earlier and the two of them became fast friends even though April is almost ten years Monica’s senior. April spent many hours after work helping Monica with her studies and giving her the ins and outs of the nursing industry.

Pretty good, she says. But I have to apologize to you in advance about tonight.

Oh? Why’s that?

I have a final coming up on Monday and I’m going to have to skip a lot of the partying tonight so that I can study.

That’s all right, he says with a