Scorched Earth

By Mark Campbell

The fires of vengeance.

What's a man to do when he has lost everything...his friends, his job, and maybe even his mind? Jack Bishop has sacrificed it all pursuing the arsonist who murdered his wife—a man the rest of the world insists is dead! Now after two years, Jack may have lost the one thing he's been holding on to: Hope.

Just when it seems that everyone else may be right, Jack is drawn back into the chase with news of mysterious fires in California. But when his investigation takes a bizarre turn, he must face the possibility that his world is more than what it seems. With more than vengeance at stake, Jack may find he still has something left to lose...

• Language: English
• Publisher: UnLeashed Arts
• Release date: Jan 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311993120

Mark Campbell

MARK CAMPBELL has written for various publications, including Midweek, Girl About Town, The Bookseller, The Independent, The Dark Side and Infinity; he was one of the main contributors to the exhaustive two-volume encyclopaedia British Crime Writing in 2009. He has written Pocket Essentials about Doctor Who, Sherlock Holmes, Agatha Christie and Carry On Films. He was theatre critic for The Kentish Times for eight years. He lives near the river in Crayford, Kent and still hasn’t got around to watching all those box sets.

Book preview

Prologue

Jack Bishop sat slumped against his car and watched his life go up in flames.

Moments before his house had merely been leaking tendrils of billowing gray smoke, but now torrents of angry fire belched out of every window. He wasn’t even sure how he had come to be here, sprawled beside the car in front of the inferno that had been his home.

He remembered driving home. Shannon was working from home that day and they had made plans to have lunch together, a small apology for all the extra hours he’d been putting in lately. Being the lead detective of the Special Crimes Unit understandably meant a lot of long hours, but Jack’s latest case had become an obsession.

Or more precisely, Jack was obsessed with catching Martin Conley, a man he had worked beside for almost a month. The fire investigator assigned to Jack’s serial arson case, who now it seemed, had been the arsonist all along. The evidence was almost nonexistent, but what little there was all pointed to Conley. His abrupt disappearance was all but an admission of guilt.

After working so closely together, it was hard not to feel betrayed, not to mention embarrassed. As far as Jack knew, no one was blaming him for not putting the pieces together sooner, but he had more than enough self-recrimination. Even with the dearth of evidence, how did it look for the head of Special Crimes to be consulting with the very man they were pursuing?

So when his wife had called, Jack assumed it was to check if he was still coming, or at least see how late he was going to be this time. Shannon rarely called him while he was working, and it irritated him that she would do so now. After all, he was on his way, even if he was late. Besides, she knew how much this investigation meant to him.

His annoyance evaporated when he’d answered the call, because it wasn’t Shannon on the other end.

It was Martin Conley.

Calling from Shannon’s phone!

Jack could only recall pieces of the conversation that followed; he’d been too busy slapping the flashing light on top of the car, speeding homeward. What he did remember was Conley congratulating him on figuring out the truth, openly admitting that he had indeed been the one who set the fires and even confessing that he had gotten away with it in other cities before Chicago.

Then Conley abruptly apologized for what was to come and hung up. Instead of flinging his phone across the car in frustration, Jack kept his head enough to call for backup. As enraged as he was, it was a miracle that the dispatcher even understood him.

He had only been a few minutes from his house; there wasn’t time for Conley to get away, but all Jack could think about was what might happen to Shannon in that time. There hadn’t been any deaths in the previous arsons, and Jack didn’t think Conley an indiscriminate killer, but he’d been fooled before.

And Conley’s apology had sounded so ominous…

So when Jack pulled up to his home at the end of a small cul-de-sac, a part of him was unsurprised to see the wisps of smoke coming out of the house. Without pausing to think he had rushed to the front door—

And now he was sitting here against his car, watching the flames grow in intensity. How had he gotten here? His head felt fuzzy and the horrific vision before him seemed to blur periodically. What had happened after he’d opened the door?

There was an explosion, the analytical part of his mind told him, most likely a backdraft.

Right, an explosion, he remembered now. The force of it had thrown him off the front steps, all the way down to his car. That explained his head and vision, then. The force of the explosion—not to mention his head impacting against the car—had been enough to give him a concussion.

But that didn’t explain why his side hurt so much. With some difficulty, Jack pulled his blurry eyes away from the blaze and looked down.

Oh, that explains it, he thought dispassionately. A piece of wood a foot long and a couple inches wide was thrust through his side. The blood leaking out of him was certainly another factor in his barely conscious state. With a detached sense of curiosity, he noticed that the shaft of wood was the same cheerful red that his front door was painted.

Had been painted. That realization struck him suddenly, clearing his mind enough for the reality of the situation to sink in.

His house was engulfed in flames. To the best of his knowledge, Shannon had been trapped inside. That thought hit him more painfully than the door shard embedded in his side. He had to get up, had to try to save her.

But when he tried to push himself up a lance of pain shot through his body, beginning and ending with his injured side. He crumbled back against the car, fighting to remain conscious. All the while, his always-rational mind tried to calculate how long it would take before back-up arrived. They would be at least ten to fifteen minutes behind him and the fire department was probably farther out than that. This time of day his neighbors would all be at work, so most likely no one had noticed the smoke. Someone surely had heard the explosion of the backdraft, but how long ago had that been? He couldn’t be certain.

He forced his head up, not wanting to see his home being consumed by merciless flame, but needing to gauge how long he had been there.

His mind went blank as he looked at the flaming remnants of his front door. Standing there, inside the dancing flames, was the outline of man. He stood looking down out at Jack, somehow unfazed even though he was wreathed in devouring fire.

Though he couldn’t make out his features through the curtain of flame, Jack knew it was Martin Conley.

No, his rational mind screamed at him, it can’t be! No one could just stand there inside flames; the heat and smoke alone would overcome a person in moments. Even from this distance Jack could feel the intensity of the blaze. You must be imagining it, his mind insisted, hallucinating. That was the only reasonable explanation.

He shook his head, trying to clear his vision. Bad idea. His head spun and he almost blacked out again. He blinked a few times until his vision returned and then looked again at the house, expecting to confirm his mind’s conclusion.

Only it didn’t. The figure was still there, still watching him.

As if waiting for a cue, the man—Conley, for indeed it was him—stepped out of the inferno and began walking down the short sidewalk toward Jack.

Again Jack’s mind refuted what he was seeing. Not only had Conley come out alive, he was completely unscathed. His skin and hair were untouched by the fire, his clothes not even singed. There wasn’t even a wisp of smoke about him. It was as though the fire were a Hollywood special effect. But there was no denying the growing heat and the ravenous consumption of the house.

It can’t be real, Jack’s mind protested, it’s some kind of trick. But, despite the impossibility, he couldn’t deny what he was seeing. Unless he was hallucinating—still a very real possibility, his mind asserted—Martin Conley had just somehow strolled out of a raging fire completely unharmed.

How? he tried to ask, but the only sound he managed was a fit of coughing. That caused a new level of pain to lance out from the shard of previous-door in his side and he again nearly lost consciousness.

Jack felt hands gently ease him back upright. Easy, Bish, Conley said, with what sounded like genuine concern, it looks like you’ve lost a lot of blood.

Don’t touch me, Jack tried to snarl, but it only came out an incoherent mumble. Even still, Conley seemed to get the idea. He let go of Jack and settled into a crouch a few feet away.

I can’t let him get away, Jack thought desperately and tried to reach for his sidearm. His arm only twitched in response, even as he remembered that he’d been holding the gun when he’d tried to enter the house. It must have been lost when he’d been thrown back.

Conley smiled sadly and shook his head, as if he understood Jack’s frustration. We don’t have much time, he said, looking toward the street. Your backup is almost here.

Jack listened. Yes, it was hard to hear over the roar of the ever-growing fire, but he definitely heard sirens approaching.

It’s over, Jack managed to say. It was barely more than a whisper, but Conley looked down at him. He had pale blue eyes—gray really—and they had always seemed to Jack to be rather lifeless and flat. But now they brimmed with emotion—excitement certainly—but also a forlorn look, as if he had been the one who had lost something.

Yes, yes it is, Conley agreed. There was a kind of sadness in his voice.

Tires squealed at the end of the street, the sound of police cars racing toward them, sirens blaring.

Conley shook his head one last time. I’m sorry it had to end like this, I really am. He stood up and turned away. Goodbye, Bish, he said over his shoulder.

No! Jack tried to rise again, he had to do something! He couldn’t let Conley get away. But all he managed to do was to fall over, his body convulsing in unimaginable pain. This time it was too much and Jack felt himself slipping away.

The last thing Jack saw was Martin Conley running toward the burning remains of his home.

Back into the flames.

One

The cool breeze coming off Lake Michigan made for a perfect spring day. A romantic picnic in the park may have been a little cliché, but they weren’t the only ones availing themselves of the perfect weather. The man looked over at the woman across the blanket, absently finishing off the strawberries, her gaze out over the lake. He couldn’t believe how beautiful she looked.

"You know, I’ve heard that those go great with champagne, he said with forced casualness, indicating the strawberries. She looked toward him, flashing a gorgeous smile and that tilt of her head that always seemed to say, You’re really weird, but I love you anyway."

He so loved that look.

"Well, I suppose you should have brought some, she replied in a tone of pretend haughtiness. Imagine, surprising me with all this and forgetting to pack the bubbly. How horrid of you."

As if waiting for that cue, he reached through the ice in the cooler behind him and withdrew what he had hidden there. I didn’t, he said with a grin, presenting her the bottle like a waiter at a classy restaurant.

She laughed. I should have known. You’re always about the details. Her jovial expression shifted to comically skeptical. Is it even legal to drink that here?

"Hey, I’m off duty, he said, reaching down and removing the badge from where it was clipped to his belt, making a show of dropping it onto the blanket. If you don’t tell, I won’t."

She smiled and shook her head.

He smiled back and slowly began twisting the cork. Letting it shoot out may look cool in the movies, but he was practical and this stuff was way too expensive to waste. There was a soft pop and the cork came free, without the careless bubbling over. Turning to the picnic basket he located the champagne flutes, along with what was hidden with them.

"So what are we celebrating?" she asked, a playful look of suspicion on her face.

"It’s a beautiful day and I’m with the woman I love. What more do we need? He propped the glasses up inside the basket so she wouldn’t see what he was doing and began pouring the champagne. Why does there have to be an event for the day to be special? An occasion can be special just because we make it so."

She laughed again. When did you get all Zen? Not that I’m complaining or disagreeing, but this isn’t like you. She gestured around them. All this is just so…so sappy.

He smiled back. I guess you just bring that out in me. He lifted the two glasses out of the basket, careful to keep his hand surreptitiously wrapped around hers as he handed it to her. For you, he said with mock servitude.

"Thank you, good sir, she replied in an equally comical tone. So, do we toast or just…" She trailed off as she finally looked at the glass—or more importantly—what lie at the bottom, surrounded by golden effervescence.

A diamond ring.

"For you," he said again, this time with complete seriousness.

"Jack, I…you…how?"

"Yes, that was exactly the response I was looking for." He kept his words light, but his heart began hammering at twice the speed it had a few moments before. Perhaps this was too cliché.

But, his joke seemed to have broken her stupor; she smiled again and threw back the glass, downing the champagne with a careful gulp. Retrieving the ring, she held it up in rapt wonder.

It wasn’t particularly large—heaven knew he couldn’t afford a rock on a cop’s salary—but it was well crafted and with the sunlight reflecting off the glistening liquid it sparkled magically. In all the time he had known her he had never seen her wear anything gaudy or ostentatious, so this one had seemed appropriate; straightforward, but elegant and beautiful.

Just like her.

She began to cry softly, but she was still smiling as well, so he supposed that was a good sign. Those are tears of happiness, I hope, he said, while a chill of unease went through his entire body.

She laughed at him. Of course they are silly. And without bothering to wipe off the champagne she slipped the ring onto her finger, which fit perfectly. She was right: He had always been good with the details.

Without warning she lunged at him, holding him tightly and kissing him passionately, all the time whispering, Yes, yes.

The part of his brain that seemed to instinctively assess everything around him noted that she had knocked his untouched glass from his hands, that she was kneeling on the plate of strawberries, and that people around them were applauding and cheering loudly. He ignored all of it. All that mattered was her. No, her with him: together!

After what seemed like an eternity, she pulled back from him and stared lovingly into his eyes. Without looking away she lifted her hand up, displaying the engagement ring.

"Now we have something to celebrate…"

Hey, buddy, wake up.

Firm shaking shattered the dream with an almost tangible pain. The memory had been one of Jack’s best, and he longed to hold on to it. But reality came flooding in with harsh abandon, with it an almost unbearable ache of longing and a cavernous sense of loss, unabated by time. The emotional pain was immediately echoed by the very physical pain in his throbbing head. He tasted grit in his mouth and it dawned on him that he was lying with his face pressed into sand.

Right, he thought, Santa Monica Beach. It had been almost 1 a.m. when he had finished off the first bottle of scotch sitting in his car parked on the east side of Palisades Park. He vaguely recalled getting out and taking the second bottle over to the beach for a stroll.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Wearily he raised his head and was greeted by a blindingly blue California sky. Head spinning, he realized it must be morning, which meant that he had spent the night on the beach.

You know you can’t sleep here, right? said the voice again, full of authority and impatience. He rolled over, not at all surprised to see a uniformed police officer glaring down at him.

Sorry, officer, I must have fallen down. Jack tried to force his grimace into what he hoped was an innocent looking grin.

And did you trip on that? the officer asked dryly, pointing down at the sand. Jack looked down too quickly and was rewarded with a flash of pain behind his eyes. When his vision cleared he saw that the officer had been indicating the nearly empty bottle of scotch that he had apparently been lying on.

Accidents do happen, he replied, trying to sound light-hearted.

Yeah, right. Sir, I’m going to need to see some identification. The officer took a small step back, his hand edging slightly closer to his gun.

No reason to get upset. He’s just following procedure. Still, it was hard being treated like a common perp, even if he deserved it. He stood up tentatively—swaying only a little—and reached into the back pocket of his jeans, somewhat surprised that his wallet was still there. Not that there was much in it, but as out-of-it as he apparently had been, a child could have picked his pocket in the night. Guess I’m lucky that this isn’t a more popular late-night area.

Here you go, officer, he said handing over the wallet. The policeman took it and examined the driver’s license in the plastic sleeve.

Jack Bishop, the officer read; a small note of skepticism in his voice. The photo was almost three years old and Jack knew he had changed quite a bit since then. The clean-cut smiling man, whose picture was on the card, in no way resembled the gaunt, scruffy looking one now standing on the beach, unkempt auburn hair hanging disheveled about his face. Plus, it had been a few days since his face had met a razor, so he knew that he probably looked like a bum.

Yeah, just about time for a new one, Jack said, forcing a smile, running his fingers through his hair, attempting to pull the tangled mess back into a manageable state and dislodge some of the sand matted there.

Illinois? The officer asked, reading the driver’s license, where in Illinois, Mr. Bishop?

Chicago, of course, he replied, trying unsuccessfully to sound light-hearted, is there anywhere else to be from in Illinois? The officer stared blandly back at him. Jack sighed. Here, try this one, it’s more recent. Slowly, as not to arouse more suspicion, he reached inside his battered leather jacket and withdrew another ID, flipped it open and presented it to the man.

You’re a private investigator? The officer asked with open skepticism, staring at the license and photo, this one less than a year old.

Jack shrugged. Yeah, I know, I’m not exactly Philip Marlowe.

Not even Sam Spade. Apparently the officer was at least a little mollified, because his body lost some of its tension and his hand came to rest on his gun belt, instead of hovering nearer his weapon as it had been. Although it looks like you got the heavy drinking part down pat. He indicated the mostly empty bottle.

Some stereotypes must be maintained, Jack said with a shrug.

Next time, maintain them in private. I’m going to call this in. He took a step back and spoke softly into the radio on his shoulder. There was a small hiss and the response from dispatch. I’ve got a Jack Bishop, Chicago, Illinois.

Jack tuned out the rest of the interchange; he knew that he was clean: He hadn’t done anything else stupid since driving into California the day before. Still, there was a pang of regret and a dislocated feeling being on this side of the law. He reached inside his jacket again and retrieved his cigarettes. Last one, he’d have to stop and pick up another pack. He shoved the empty back into his jacket, extracted a wooden match out of a small box and struck it with a practiced flick of his thumb. He lit the cigarette and inhaled a lungful of smoke, but instead of shaking out the match he turned it down so that it flared stronger, burning up the length of the wood. His lungs began to protest the invading fumes as he stared at the flame, its bright orange blackening the thin stick, until at last it reached his fingers and he was forced to drop it in the sand. As the tiny fire went out he at last exhaled, shaking the singe off his fingers. He had been observing this little ritual for so long that his finger and thumb had developed a callus, but it still stung a bit.

He continued with the cigarette as unbidden memories swirled around him like the white smoke around his head.

Shannon. The fire. His imagination providing an image of her tied up on their bed, engulfed in flame; inhaling the smoke, gasping for breath, all the while wondering where he was…

You can’t smoke here, the officer said, shaking Jack from his brooding. The patrolman had stepped back toward him, but was still holding his wallet and license.

Right, sorry, Jack said, kicking himself internally; he should have known that. He fished the empty pack out of his pocket and dropped the half finished cigarette inside.

The officer handed him back the identification and began to say something when his radio squawked at him again. He took another step away as he answered back.

Jack sighed, he really didn’t have the extra cash to pay for a ticket, but it had been his own fault. He looked down, then leaned over cautiously and scooped up the bottle of scotch. No reason to add littering to his list of infringements as well.

The officer finished his radio conversation and then stepped back. Mr. Bishop, it’s your lucky day. I’m needed elsewhere, so I’m going to let you off with a warning, but I suggest you acquaint yourself with Santa Monica laws. Also, this is a popular beach and it’s bad for tourism when people see a man lying face down in the sand first thing in the morning. He looked back toward the ocean. Even though it was October it was shaping up to be a beautiful day and the beach was filling up with joggers, die-hard surfers, and the random vacationer. Are you staying somewhere nearby?

Yeah, just around the corner, Jack lied. Emergency or not, the officer might not be so lenient if he knew that Jack had driven to the beach half intoxicated.

Well then, have a nice day, the policeman said mechanically. He started to turn toward the parking lot and his cruiser, but added over his shoulder, And Mr. Bishop, try to stay out of trouble.

I always try, Jack whispered to himself as he watched the officer walk away. He looked down in disgust at the bottle in his hands, as if it had somehow betrayed him.

Then he raised it to his lips and finished it off in one long pull.

‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒

By the time Jack made it over the pedestrian overpass and negotiated his way to the other side of Palisades Park his head had begun to pound in earnest. The brilliant morning sun sent a stab of pain through his bloodshot eyes and he wished longingly for the sunglasses he had left in the car. He hurriedly fished out his keys as he approached the car, only to find that he had neglected to lock the doors.

Not that it really mattered. Though the old Ford Crown Victoria had gotten him here from Vegas all right, it was well past its prime, drab beige in color and slightly rusted around the edges. No respectful thief have would bothered trying to steal it. Like himself, the old thing just wasn’t worth the effort.

He got in the driver’s seat and pulled the sunglasses off the visor, blissfully donning the wraparound Ray-bans, the dark lenses giving him respite from the cruel Californian sun. He rubbed his temples and made a mental note to pick up some aspirin with his cigarettes. Despite what he had told the patrolman he didn’t typically indulge this much. Oh, he drank a lot more these days than he used to, but usually not to the point of passing out. It was just that yesterday had been the anniversary.

Two years.

Jack reached into his back pocket and pulled his wallet out again. He extricated a well worn photograph and tossed the faded leather absently onto the passenger seat. A smiling face stared back at him, so full of life and joy.

Shannon.

It was a photo taken on their wedding day, not one of the official portraits, but a candid one her dad had taken. Shannon had always hated getting her picture taken, so in posed pictures she had always come out looking slightly pained, or at least forced. This picture had captured her real smile, so expressive and unrestrained, with hope for the future shining in her eyes.

What kind of future did I give you? he couldn’t help but ask silently. He dropped the photo onto the seat next to the wallet. He didn’t need it to remember her face, her smile, every little detail about her.

Jack had always had an excellent memory. Not photographic, but better than most. Along with a keen eye for detail, it had made him exceptional at his job—back when he had been a police detective and not a washed-up loser.

But when it came to Shannon, his memory might have well been eidetic. It seemed like thousands of images, countless conversations, every argument, every make-up, was burned into his mind. She haunted him, a ghost made up of memories he could not be rid of.

Not that he wanted to. He deserved the haunting, deserved to remember with perfect clarity the beautiful and vibrant woman who was dead because of him.

Throwing himself into work had been his attempt to dull the ache this year, that’s why he had taken the job in Vegas.

He had flown into Sin City doing a skip trace for an old acquaintance that worked for the Chicago District Attorney. Illinois didn’t have bail-bondsmen, and bounty hunters were strictly not tolerated, but the perp in question was a key witness in a high-profile case, so Jack had been hired on the down-low. Being a washed out ex-cop apparently made him ideal for some tasks. Since the DA couldn’t be caught condoning bounty hunting in any form, Jack was told to simply track the man down and discretely tip off the local PD.

The job hadn’t been difficult. The witness hadn’t exactly been master criminal material. A rundown of past associates and a couple of bribes had revealed that the man was hiding out with an old girlfriend. With one quick phone call, the guy was in police custody and on his way back to the Windy City.

Since his return flight had been left to his discretion, Jack had toyed with the idea of staying for a few days and trying his luck at the casinos. Perhaps he could find enough distraction to keep himself from fixating on the anniversary that was almost upon him. But while he seemed to have accumulated quite a few vices, gambling wasn’t one of them.

Besides, luck hadn’t been on his side for a long time.

Jack took off his sunglasses and rubbed at his eyes, forcing the flood of dark thoughts away and willing the memories to recede. He knew that Shannon would not want him to blame himself, and yet he could not seem to do otherwise.

It was his fault.

He had allowed Martin Conley into their lives.

The thought of the man twisted his sorrow instantly into a searing rage. Over the last two years Jack had sacrificed nearly all that was left of his life in pursuit of Conley. It was in fact that pursuit that had brought him to Santa Monica.

Chasing a man that the rest of the world insisted was dead.

It had become part of his daily routine to check for reports with any similarity to that case which had cost him so dearly. News articles, online groups, even conspiracy websites, anything that might give him a lead. He’d found one almost by accident on his last day in Vegas, a news story about a string of mysterious fires plaguing the ocean-side town. There had been no deaths, no evidence of arson, and not enough commonality between the fires to suggest it. Still, that many accidental fires in such a short amount of time seemed quite the coincidence and the media had begun to speculate on the existence of a serial arsonist. Fires were common, but a string of them, at different times and different nights, suggested the possibility of arson. But in cases of arson there was always some evidence, ignition points or traces of accelerants. Perhaps the officials were simply keeping the evidence under wraps, but if not…

It had seemed all too familiar to Jack.

He had tried calling the fire marshal in charge of the investigation, but only gotten the run-around. So with nothing better to do, he decided to take a quick detour to the Coast. It was, after all, less than a five-hour drive, and he already had a car. Not knowing how long it would take to track down his target, Jack had opted not to rent a vehicle. Instead he had searched through a few used car lots until he had found some clunkers that weren’t a lot more expensive than a long-term rental and were a lot less conspicuous than a shiny new car. Father Mike had taught him enough about fixing engines that he could keep just about anything running, even if it didn’t have a prayer of passing an emissions test. The Crown Vic was the best deal he could afford without blowing too much of his expense fund.

After arriving in Santa Monica, he had settled in to a cheap motel well off the Interstate and tried contacting the fire marshal again. Jack eventually got a hold of him near the end of the work day. The man had been impatient and annoyed, insisting that he was far too busy to meet and that Jack was wasting his time. But Jack was persistent and eventually the marshal had agreed to a quick meeting at eleven o’clock this morning.

Jack checked his watch. The meeting was still a few hours off. If he hurried he would have time to shower and get a bite to eat first. He donned his Ray-bans again and started the car. There had been more than enough wallowing the night before. Time to get back to his life.

Such as it was.

Two

The black Lexus drove through the large parking lot in Griffith Park, past the merry-go-round, and continued toward the extensive playground area. The driver circled the luxury car around until he found a space with no other car nearby; not an easy task, even early on a weekday morning. The October weather was particularly pleasant, even by Southern California standards and everyone who could, it seemed, wanted to be out enjoying the day.

Once the car was parked the driver got out, leaving the engine running. He was followed almost immediately by the front seat passenger. The two were so similar that they could have passed for brothers, both large and muscular, built like linemen. They had nearly identical black suits with nondescript ties and even their hair was similarly shaved close. The matched set scanned the area meticulously, before looking at one another and nodding. Then the driver opened his back door and signaled that it was clear to exit.

The man who got out wasn’t even half the size of either of the bodyguards. He was of average height, whipcord thin, with black hair swept back from a sharp, chiseled face. His suit was also dark, but a discriminating eye would recognize that it was much more expensive than those of the two bodyguards. His shoes were Italian leather and his crisp white shirt was hand tailored. He adjusted his red silk tie and rather ostentatiously shook out the large gold watch on his wrist, making a show of checking the time. It was a Rolex, of course. Like the rest of his attire it spoke of money, success, and power. He removed his designer sunglasses and scanned the park area—especially the screaming children and laughing families—with obvious distain in his small, dark eyes. He walked around to the passenger side and as he did the back window rolled down.

Not the typical spot for a business meeting, Mr. Carver, the sharp-faced man said, leaning a hand nonchalantly on the roof of the car and leaning slightly into the window. Why did this guy want to meet here of all places?

The remaining passenger looked up at the man, a small frown of disapproval on his handsome face. Quade, don’t be an idiot, the passenger said bluntly, causing the other man to raise his eyebrows in surprise. Obviously he wants to meet in a public place, with too much activity for anyone to really notice.

Or at least, no one would if you weren’t attired like an overdressed popinjay, Carver finished in his head. There was no point insulting the man. He would just be sullen, and despite his compulsory need to overcompensate for his lower class roots, the lawyer was an effective business manager and subordinate.

Right, Quade said, subdued, of course, Mr. Carver.

Carver nodded. In contrast to his lawyer, he was dressed casually, in a simple cream colored silk shirt, khakis, and comfortable deck shoes. They were all expensive as well, just not obnoxiously so. Unlike Quade, Carver had no one he needed to impress. Although he was only a few years older than Quade, Carver displayed the confidence of a much older man, and Quade had always treated him with the respect he would show an elder. Which was good, since Carver would have had him killed a long time ago, effective or not, had Quade not been properly respectful.

Carver pointed toward the park. The instructions said he would meet us there, the center bench past the playground.

I don’t understand, Quade said, looking over to where he had indicated. Why are we taking orders from some stranger we’ve never met?

"We are not taking orders, Carver said with just a hint of steel in his smooth voice. We are accepting an invitation from someone who has fronted a great deal of money to get our attention. He didn’t add the other reason. He hadn’t shared the contents of the letter that had accompanied the monetary gift other than the invitation" to meet. The author had been cordial enough in his request for this meeting, but he had also added some detailed information about Carver’s business and personal life, information no one should have been privy to. The author had assured Carver that the information was not meant as a threat, simply a means to prove that he was a person worth meeting and not to be ignored.

Carver checked his own rather plain watch. Well, it’s time. You’d better go see what our mystery person wants. He kept his tone neutral and impassive. It wouldn’t do for the boss to show trepidation, but the truth was that anyone who could know the things this person did was not someone he wanted to trifle with. Besides, if the individual had wanted to harm him, the details of the information he or she had somehow obtained would have been more than sufficient.

How will I know him? asked Quade, scowling with displeasure. The lawyer liked being the one in control and this whole scenario unnerved him. Carver honestly couldn’t blame him, but couldn’t afford any sympathy.

He will know you, Carver answered dismissively and then rolled his window back up, forestalling anymore of Quade’s objections. He watched through the tinted glass as Quade gestured to the closest bodyguard and the two of them headed toward the designated area. The remaining bodyguard took up a watchful position outside the car.

Carver watched until the two moved beyond sight and then turned his attention back to his tablet and the article he had been reading on the ride up here.

It’s so hard to find good help these days, came a rich baritone voice beside him, thick with a refined German accent.

Carver jumped and looked up astonished. No one could have gotten past the wary eye of his guard and even if they had, none of the car doors had opened. But impossibly, there was a man sitting in the seat next to him. Instinctively, Carver reached for the small pistol concealed in a secret holster he had installed beneath his seat. But, though he had been sure to check the weapon before they had left, the holster was now empty.

Really, Herr Carver, said that deep, cultured voice. As I said in my letter, I mean you no harm. I simply wanted to meet. However, I do not waste my time with underlings. The mysterious man gestured obliquely toward where Quade had headed.

Carver turned fully to take in the man, trying his best to hide his confusion and fear. He was a fine-boned man, slimmer even than Quade. He had pronounced cheekbones, a pointed chin, and a thin nose. But while Quade’s harsh features made him appear somewhat like a weasel, this man’s sharp features somehow looked commanding and regal. Behind round, gold-framed glasses his ice-blue eyes were filled with an imperious intelligence and though he appeared to be only in his mid-twenties, he radiated sublime confidence. His skin was very pale and his short spiky hair was such a light shade of blonde it was almost white. His paleness was further accentuated by an all-white suit, shirt, and shoes; offset only by a thin tie, pocket square, and socks that all matched the blue of his eyes. He also had a gold watch that matched his glasses, although one not as gaudy as Quade’s prize Rolex. Although the lawyer tried to adorn himself to show off how powerful and successful he had become, this stranger appeared so simply because he was. Quade was a low-born man trying to make himself better, but there was no mistaking that this stranger was completely high class, noble even. If this man had been wearing rags he would still appear more