Desperate Shadows: Desperate Shadows Trilogy, #1

By Jason W. Blair

In the northeastern United States, there is a sinister town full of secrets: Deception, infidelity, murder, and a terrifying prison full of innocent outsiders! Mort and Emily moved to Brockton to escape the chaos of the city, and this small, northeastern town was perfect, no more smog or long commutes; and best of all, the city prided itself on maintaining the lowest crime rate in the country.

But immediately after moving in, they notice something odd about the residents. When they enter the Diamond Diner for a meal, Mort and Emily find themselves on the wrong side of the law, on a trumped up charge of attempting a "Dine-N-Dash".

Mort and Emily are taken into custody and put on trial before being tossed into a filthy, rudimentary prison where they soon discover that inmates are disappearing.

Every night, one of them is kidnapped. Their screams echo loudly through the courtyard, and the inmates cower in their tiny alcoves. But on the outside, an underground resistance group is moving quickly to overthrow Judge Warner and the corrupt police department.

Everyone has a deadly secret and no one can be trusted. Who can bring order to a town that is caught in the throes of iniquity?

Find out in volume one of Desperate Shadows!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brockway Books
• Release date: Aug 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516331482

Jason W. Blair

Jason W. Blair was born in Altoona, Pennsylvania in 1981. His novels include Desperate Shadows, The Garden of Ages, and Snapshot Finish. He is also a book cover designer and the host of the YouTube web show, Ultimate How-To: Linux Edition.

Book preview

1

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Relocation is never an easy decision, especially for Mort Avery, who was thirty-five years old and the latest victim of corporate downsizing. He had devoted the past six years to the Rite-Brand production plant in Kinsley; but with the failing economy and a lack of productivity within the company, he had been let go, tossed out like yesterday’s garbage.

Mort wiped a puddle of sweat from his forehead and glanced over at Emily, his wife. Emily was a homemaker. She had worked as a waitress in a small pizza parlor before she and Mort were married, but four months after the honeymoon, Mort insisted that Emily stay home and take care of the house. He had old-fashioned values; and even though money was tight, Mort felt that his wife would be more comfortable in the home. Emily disagreed, however, but usually remained silent whenever Mort brought it up.

She sighed unhappily, shifting in her seat and watching the rolling countryside outside her window. Then she turned and looked at her husband and smiled. Her eyes were slightly red. Being cramped in the car for several hours with nothing to do was tiresome.

They passed a sign that read, Brockton 2 miles.

Don't worry. We're almost there, said Mort.

Emily nodded, still smiling. She caressed the back of Mort's neck and kissed him gently.

Mort slowed the car and scanned the road ahead. There was a light-brown, thirteen foot, stone archway ahead of them, with a recessed keystone at the top. Engraved on the keystone was City of Brockton.

What a relief, he thought. After five hours on the road, they had nearly finished the move from Kinsley.

They passed through the archway and large, beautiful houses replaced the surrounding trees. Mort didn’t take much notice; his mind recalled the morning his entire world came crashing down all around him.

~

Mort! someone shouted.

He was standing in the break room and filling a small, styrofoam cup with hot coffee. Immediately, he replaced the pot, added a small amount of sugar and creamer, and grabbed a plastic stirrer from the basket at the back of the counter. He dipped it into the cup and swirled it about, grabbing the coffee and retreating from the room.

Mort, get in here! the same gruff voice barked from within an adjacent doorway. It belonged to the plant manager, Arnold Brinks.

He entered the office, barely in the room, and stood looking down at a seated Brinks, like a student summoned to the principal’s office.

Avery, said Brinks. I’ll get right to the point. We’re losing customers, and fast. Plus, with all the pressure from the federal government, OSHA, and the USDA, I’m afraid we have to trim the fat around here.

Mort’s legs became weak. He could feel them attempting to rebel, to buckle, and send him toppling forward. Therefore, he set down his coffee and threw his hand onto the desktop for support.

What are you trying to tell me?

Brinks sighed and leaned back in the chair. He threw his arms up and around the back of his head, linking his fingers.

I’m saying that we’re letting you go, Mort.

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Why? He asked. I’m your best employee, Arnold—and you know it!

He grinned smugly and replied, It doesn’t matter. The orders came from the top and that’s the way it is.

You arrogant prick, thought Mort. He wanted to lunge across the desk and wring Arnold’s neck, but he immediately thought of his wife. What would Emily have to say about it?

Thank you, sir, he voiced sarcastically, turning and leaving the office.

Yeah, right. Thank you for canning me on my anniversary. I’ll make sure Emily sends you an envelope full of our neighbor’s dog droppings.

~

He looked into the rear-view mirror, noticing graffiti on the rear of the archway. Anywhere but here, that’s where I’ll be.

I need you to navigate now, said Mort.

Emily opened the glove box and pulled out a single piece of notebook paper on which she had scrawled the directions to their new home. She scanned the paper until her finger rested below the words stone arch.

Take a left at the first stoplight, she said.

Mort slowed the car. Up ahead was the first intersection that they had seen in over twenty-five miles.

Suddenly, a dog ran from behind one of the houses and darted across the street. Mort slammed on the brakes and his arm shot across the car, throwing Emily back against her seat.

You’re trying to get us killed! Emily screamed.

Mort frowned and replied, Did you not see that dog? Are you blind? What was I supposed to do—hit him?

I don't know, Mort; just keep driving. The sooner we get to the house, the sooner I can get out and stretch my legs.

Fine, I'm turning left up ahead, Mort said, easing off the brake.

Several minutes later, he pulled the car into the paved driveway of their new house—a two-story, light-brown, brick house with twin bay windows that overlooked the front lawn, at the right of the driveway. A narrow, stone walkway snaked between the short grass, to a white front door.

When the car stopped, Emily unfastened her seat belt and climbed out. Mort turned off the engine, emerged, and surveyed the street while he closed the door.

Hello there! Somebody shouted.

They turned to find a middle-age man walking across the street. He shook Mort's hand and engaged in a routine round of introductions. Their new friend announced himself as Frank Mitchell. 

You folks just moving in then? Frank asked. I live just across the street. So if you both need anything, just come on over and ask.

Thank you. We'll do that, Mort said.

Emily stood on the opposite side of the car. She smiled at Frank, but quickly folded her arms across her chest.

Frank Mitchell stood just under six feet tall. He had dark brown hair, slicked back, and a short beard. He glanced at Emily with piercing blue eyes that spoke volumes; and though he appeared friendly, Emily was completely unnerved.

Well we have a lot of unpacking to do, She said. Mort, would you give me a hand?

In a minute, He said. Well, it was nice meeting you, Frank. I hope we'll see you again real soon.

I'm sure you will. He flashed another smile at them. Take care now, both of you.

Emily tapped her foot impatiently. Now, Mort! She roared.

~

Two hours later, Mort and Emily had unloaded the few cardboard boxes they had packed into the backseat of their twenty year old, medium-size Buick. Emily called it a rust bucket, because it was in dire disrepair.

Mort sat slumped on the couch, his legs outstretched, and his feet resting on the coffee table. Emily sat beside him and laid her head on his chest. Then Mort wrapped his arm around her.

I’m sorry I was in a bad mood earlier, Emily said; she looked up to gauge her husband’s approval.

You were probably just tired, said Mort. I know I am still pretty tired.

You should lay down awhile. I can cook dinner.

What are you going to cook? Mort asked, chuckling. All the pots and pans are still boxed up.

Emily shrugged her shoulders, and sat upright.

I’m sure I can find something, She said, standing up and walking to the kitchen.

Mort rose from the couch. He glanced out the window facing the road. He could see Frank Mitchell sitting on his porch across the street. Frank was smoking a pipe and talking to himself.

The man is probably just lonely. That’s all, just lonely, Mort thought as he turned and joined his wife in the kitchen. Emily was digging through several boxes on the floor, looking for something to make. She jumped as Mort entered.

I’m sorry, Mort said, smirking. I didn’t mean to scare you. But did you find anything for dinner?

Emily shook her head. All we have is canned goods and I don’t know where the can opener is right now.

It’s okay. We’ll head into town and grab some dinner. I saw a cozy little diner on the way here. It’s only a few blocks away—unless you’d rather run across the street and ask Frank for a can opener.

Emily glared at him, unimpressed. Not funny. Let me get my coat, and you can grab the keys.

We can walk, it’s only a few blocks; and you don’t need your coat, it’s still pretty warm out yet.

I love you, Mort, Emily said, smiling.

I love you too—but we’re still walking.

~

Several minutes later, they stepped inside the Diamond Diner. Oldies music, which flowed out of a jukebox near the far right wall, immediately greeted them. A bell, hanging above the doorway, rang loudly as they entered and closed the door.

For a moment, neither Mort nor Emily took another step forward. The dining room was about half-full of well-dressed men and women who turned and gazed curiously at the new couple.

Well come on in, folks. Don’t be a stranger! A waitress shouted from behind the counter.

Mort crossed the dining room and sat down on a stool at the counter. Emily followed.

The waitress was a short, thirty year old woman with medium-length, brown hair tied back in a ponytail. She wore a thin framed pair of silver glasses that looked as if they were going to slip off her face at any moment, and a light blue dress with a black, plastic nametag. Jenny, it read.

Jenny placed two menus on the counter. I’ll give you just a moment. She walked away.

Did you see how everyone was staring at us when we walked in? Emily asked, glancing at the menu.

Mort shook his head. It seems like a nice place. Try to enjoy yourself, Emily; and don’t forget why we moved here.

I remember. Emily closed the menu and set it on the counter. You couldn’t handle living in the city; and then, you couldn’t find work, so you moved us out here to Mayberry.

I was laid off, there’s a difference.

Not to me, Mort. I don’t like this place, the people here are weird.

Jenny approached with an empty mug in her hand. She filled it with hot coffee and set it in front of a man, seated two stools to the left of Mort.

She turned and smiled. Figure out what you want? 

I’ll have the pork chop platter and a cup of coffee, Mort said.

And I’ll just have a salad, Emily said.

And to drink?

Emily gathered the menus. Water.

Okay. That’ll be about fifteen minutes. Jenny took the menus; and then she turned, and entered the kitchen.

The man, seated two stools to Mort’s left, smiled at him. The name’s Russell Long, He said, shaking Mort’s hand.

Hey, I’m Mort Avery. And this is my wife, Emily.

Russell shoved his hand towards Emily. She jumped and took several steps backward; and then she motioned for Mort to follow.

Come off it, lady. I was only trying to shake your hand.

Mort, let’s go—I’ll cook something at the house.

Calm down, Emily, our food will be ready in a few minutes.

I will not calm down, Mort. If you’re not coming, then I’ll walk home myself, Emily protested. I’ve had about enough of these people. I just want to go back to Kinsley!

Where people treat us like garbage because we’re poor?

Where people are normal—are you coming?

No, Emily. I’m going to stay here and eat my dinner. Now stop making a scene and sit down.

Emily shook her head.

Ordinarily, Mort would have surrendered, but not this time. He was standing his ground, which fueled Emily’s anger. She turned and strode across the dining room just as Jenny emerged from the kitchen.

Stop her—she hasn’t paid! Jenny yelled.

No, it’s okay. She’s with me, and her food isn’t even done, Mort said.

Oh, it’s done alright. I just finished preparing her salad, Jenny said, walking around the counter. Peter, stop that girl!

Emily reached the door, but before she could push it open and slip out of the diner, someone grabbed her arm and yanked her backwards. She stumbled and fell onto the floor.

Hey, you can’t treat my wife that way! Mort shouted, jumping off his stool and rushing to his wife’s side.

He reached down to help Emily to her feet, but she threw his arm aside. I can manage, She snapped, Where were you a few seconds ago?

Suddenly, the door opened and a uniformed officer stepped inside. Everyone paused, except for Emily, who finally rose to her feet.

Thank God you’re here, She hissed, approaching him. These men attacked me. I was only trying to leave and go home because I married an idiot!

That woman is a thief! Jenny countered. She tried to leave without paying. Peter Shaw was detaining the wretch for me!

She hurt my hand, Peter said.

And she is disrupting my business! Jenny added, walking to the officer’s side.

Russell beat his fist on the counter. I was just trying to shake her hand! He yelled.

The Officer—his name was Stanley Whittle—raised his hand and grimaced. Everyone be quiet!

I was attacked! Emily screamed.

I said quiet!

Stanley gazed at Jenny, motioning her to continue.

"These two came in here about twenty minutes ago and ordered two specials, so I went in the back and gave their order to the cook. Then I came back out.

"Well, after about fifteen minutes, their food was done. I walked to the back, and that’s when the commotion started. I came out of the kitchenand found her— She pointed to Emily. She was running for the door."

We weren’t even served our food yet, Emily said. And that man, at the counter—he assaulted me!

I was just trying to shake her hand! I’m sick and tired of these people coming here and acting all better than us.

Quiet, Russell! Stanley shouted. His gaze remained on the Averys as he brushed past them. Jenny, you want to press charges?

Press charges! Emily screamed.

She lunged forward, ready to attack Officer Whittle; but Mort grabbed her waist and pulled her back.

Stanley’s hand instinctively lowered, resting on the hilt of his nightstick. He glared at her angrily.

Now you look here, ma’am, Stanley said. I don’t know how things are in whatever town you two are from; but here in Brockton, we demand peace and civility. You can’t order food and not pay for it—and furthermore, you can’t go around attacking people whenever you feel like it. We have laws!

He turned to Jenny. Would you like to press charges? He asked again.

Jenny stared at the Averys. Yes, Stanley, I would.

Emily stopped thrashing, and Mort’s arm relaxed. This is complete—

Watch your tongue, ma’am! Stanley scolded. We also have laws against cussing here in Brockton.

Yep, Russell Long said. Ol’ Stanley got me on that one last week. I had to pay a hefty fine of two hundred dollars or I’d still be locked up.

You have a law against cussing? Emily said. What kind of a law is that?

It’s covered under disorderly conduct. It is called the offensive language provision, Stanley said. I’m afraid you two are under arrest.

Stanley Whittle pulled two sets of handcuffs from his belt and slapped them on Mort and Emily’s wrists. With his hands resting on their shoulders, he ushered them out of the diner and into his patrol car.

Meanwhile, Jenny Everett and several of the diner patrons stood at the front window. They watched as the police cruiser pulled out into the street and drove away. A wave of relief rippled through the dining room and everyone began to feel more relaxed.

2

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Beverly Whittle stood in the checkout line at Bargain-Mart.   There were two people ahead of her: Evelyn Grove and Bobby Hayden. She grabbed a pack of batteries from the rack beside her; and tossed it into the basket, hanging from her arm.

The cashier today, was Laura Guffey. Laura was a twenty-five year old high school dropout. She had attended night school to get her General Equivalency Diploma, but many people in Brockton still viewed Laura as unacceptable. Beverly Whittle was no exception.

Laura smiled at Beverly. ‘She’s so naïve’, Beverly thought. ‘She hasn’t the slightest clue that I despise her’.

Beverly smiled.

From outside the store, there came a quiet wailing. Within a few seconds, it became evident that it was the sound of a siren...a police siren. Everyone froze and turned their eyes to the tall, plate-glass windows at the front of the store.

The sirens grew louder, much louder; and a moment later, a police cruiser roared past the store at high speed. This was uncommon since there was rarely a crime committed in Brockton; but everyone knew the significance of a speeding patrol car. Moreover, both Beverly and Laura knew that patrol car belonged to Beverly’s husband, Stanley Whittle.

Hello, Mrs. Whittle, said Laura, a moment later.

Beverly emptied her basket onto the counter, and handed it to Laura. Hello, Laura. How are you today?

I’m just fine. I guess that was your husband, in the cruiser, a few minutes ago.

Beverly nodded. It was him. She said. Just part of the job, I suppose.

Laura scanned the few items Beverly had placed on the counter, and then totaled it. Your total is twenty-three dollars and seven-teen cents. Laura said. Then a moment later, It’s nice weather we’re having.

Beverly pulled several bills out of her purse and handed them to Laura. Keep the change. She said, grabbing her purchases from the bag carousel. She quickly rushed outside, to her car.

~

Stanley Whittle pulled the cruiser into the back parking lot of the police station. He shut the engine off, and rushed Mort and Emily inside. The station was nearly empty, except for Earl Simmons: Stanley’s deputy.

Earl Simmons, 32, was a short, stocky man with dark hair and equally dark eyes. He didn’t care much for his job. It was only a way to collect his bi-weekly paycheck. In fact, he would have been much more content idly sitting by and reading comics all day instead of doing actual work, which his did on numerous occasions. 

Earl sat with his feet on the desk. He jumped up quickly when Stanley and the prisoners entered.

Two more, eh? said Earl. That makes six this month.

Put these two in the tank, earl. I have to go take care of some business. Stanley turned and exited the station.

Earl Simmons crossed the room and led Mort and Emily down a narrow hallway. He opened a cell door at the far end of the hall, and locked them inside. Earl turned and walked away.

Wait! Emily shouted. She pressed her face against the cold, steel bars. What’s going to happen to us?

Earl stopped and spun around. He shook his head. Sorry, lady, but you and your husband have broken the law. Tomorrow, we’ll take you to court and try you. If you’re found guilty, then you’ll go to a more permanent placement.

But we didn’t do anything wrong! Emily shouted, slamming her hands against the cell door.

Well, that’s for the judge to decide. In the meantime, you and your husband can cool your heels in that cell. Good luck, buddy. Earl said, winking at Mort. This one’s a pistol.

What about a lawyer? Do we get a lawyer? Emily asked.

You have one, ma’am?

No, we don’t.

Then you’ll get a public defender. Take care now. Earl left the hallway, and returned to his desk.

Meanwhile, outside the station, Stanley Whittle sat in the patrol car, with a cellphone pressed against his ear. Hey, you getting off work soon? He smiled. Good. So, I’ll see you in twenty minutes. Make sure you’re wearing that outfit I got you ...I love you too.

He lowered the phone and flipped it shut, placing it in the cup holder next to him. He glanced at his wristwatch, and then he started the engine and sped away.  

~

Stanley Whittle was married. He had been so for the past twenty or so years, but that didn’t stop his eyes from wandering. Or any other part of him either. For months now, he had been secretly meeting up with a twenty-five year old woman named Laura Guffey. They wouldn’t go out on dates. It was purely a physical relationship to compensate for the lack of intimacy at home.

That was who he had just been on the phone with, and for whom he was racing away from the station. He wasn’t sure if his wife was aware of his infidelity, but he didn’t care either. In Stanley’s mind, there was only one thing that could truly relax him after a hectic day like the one he’d had today, and that one thing was his lover.

~

Twenty minutes later, Stanley pulled into a short, paved, driveway. He parked behind a light blue sedan and shut the engine off. Then, he exited the car and entered the house.

Hey! There’s my lover. Laura said, rushing to the door and wrapping her arms around Stanley. She kissed him passionately, but he didn’t reciprocate. What’s the matter? You’re not feeling guilty are you?

Are you kidding me? No. Stanley said. Beverly and I haven’t been intimate in nearly six months. I think maybe she’s fooling around on me.

Laura laughed, and lowered her arms. She crossed the living room and dropped onto the couch. And you aren’t? She said, smiling. C’mon, sit beside me.

Stanley walked over and sat down next to Laura.