Sins of the Killer

By JD Lowes

Noble Bishop, a government trained assassin known as The Scythe, has transitioned from his nefarious past to one of normality. While on the job as a security specialist at a popular Portland nightclub, happenstance brings him into contact with a psychopath and his life is altered in the most profound of ways.
Temperate loner Victor Kukorian is hanging on to his sanity by a thread. After finishing the last of his late mother’s hospice formula, he is left with psychopathic impulses boiling just below the surface. It’s just a matter of time...
When his estranged brother Steven enters the picture, he is exposed to abhorrent stimuli, and a serial killer is born. His mind clouded by his cravings for morphine, he is determined to satiate his new found desires of the flesh, but when he chooses the wrong victim, he must pay the ultimate price...
For retribution taken too far, a price must be paid, and when two killers on divergent paths cross, the consequences will be explosive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JD Lowes
• Release date: Mar 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310304491

JD Lowes

I've been in the US Military, I've taught security and investigation and been involved with Private Investigation, I was a figurative sculptor, and survived the direct hit of Hurricane Katrina. I'm a motorcycle enthusiast and enjoy shooting sports. I love animals and the outdoors. My hobby is woodworking. I've got tons of experience in many facets of the game of life and at this point I'm confident I have enough experience under my belt to write very cool stories.

Book preview

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

It would be impossible for me to do what I do if it wasn’t for the support and encouragement of my beautiful wife, Denita. She is the cornerstone in the foundation that is my life. She nourishes my dreams and just as important, puts up with my idiosyncratic ways. I thank-you with all my heart.

Twenty years ago, in 1995 when I first penned this tale, my wife and I pinched pennies to purchase Alyce M. Skelton’s editorial services. At the time, I was young and frankly, proud to have completed my first manuscript. All my friends and family ensured me it was a good story. So when I submitted it to the expert eye of a professional editor, the results, gutted me. My confidence took a huge hit that day. I questioned if I had the tools required to continue writing stories. In time, I came to terms with her extremely harsh editorial criticism of my work and soldiered on. I went the self-publishing E-book route with my follow-up efforts, ‘The Seraph’s Son’ and ‘Volition: An Extra-Terrestrial Incident,’ so in the spring of 2015 when my wife convinced me to revisit ‘Sins of the Killer,’ with reticence, I agreed to give it another shot and pulled the originally marked-up manuscript out from in back of the door (for decades the manuscript was used as a door stop). I re-read the twenty year old manuscript and Ms. Skelton’s twenty page feedback critique of ‘Sins of the Killer.’ I still found her criticism of a fledgling would-be novelist to be unreasonable and hard. However, time has a way of tempering anger and resentment. I now think your constructive critique was beneficial to the completion of this work and now I feel you were spot on – my story was not ready.

Today, I would be thrilled if I received such attention to detail from an editor! Your comments and advice have truly helped me produce a more engaging story. With twenty years of hindsight, and having become a little more grounded, I finally came to a place where I could appreciate your attempt to make me a better storyteller. I can now thank-you for the efforts you made to make my words stronger. Back then, I was too close to the work, and was not prepared to hear anything negative you had to say about my story. George Bernard Shaw once said, Youth is wasted on the young. When you talk about me, truer words have never been spoken…

Finally, I would like to give a kind word to my Cover artist, Ms. Dora Gonzalez. She takes my thoughts and creates intriguing and wonderful cover designs. I thank-you.

PRELUDE

Rocky Butte State Corrections facility resembled a relic out of the dark ages. Originally named Fort Gresham, it had been built by military convicts one hundred and twenty-five years earlier. It resembled a medieval castle. On a clear day, its ominous black ramparts could be seen atop Rocky Butte for twenty miles in any direction.

Through the years, the city of Portland stretched easterly beyond the Willamette River, and suburbs appeared around the now infamous Rocky Butte Jail. If you keep going down the path you’re on mister, you’ll surely end up rotting in Rocky Butte, was a familiar threat echoed to rambunctious youth growing up within the backdrop of the state penitentiary.

To many, the institution was a blight on the community. Land developers began to covet the last vestiges of unscathed scenic real estate, where visions of high priced luxury homes filled their imaginations. The only obstacle, that ill-boding black granite tower of despair which hindered any development of the cliff sided butte.

Funded by EMPHIL Development Corporation, the Citizens for the Betterment of Portland (CBP) had successfully obtained enough signatures to put a measure on the local voting ballot that if passed, would remove the inhabitants of the infamous institution of sorrow.

The CBP launched a successful campaign playing on the fears of the community and offered a kinder, safer alternative for the facility – a park and scenic vista. The measure overwhelmingly passed. Overnight, property values quadrupled. Within six months, the EMPHIL Corporation began construction of high-end homes with breathtaking views all over the Butte.

Of the forty-five hundred inhabitants of Rocky Butte State Penitentiary, only the most incorrigible of prisoners were distributed throughout the country’s penal system. The State Bureau of Prison Affairs mandated a review of all remaining inmate records, and if they were within ten years of the expiration of their sentence, it was recommended in the strongest of terms that they be released back into the community. When all was said and done, over half of the inmates were processed for early release.

CHAPTER ONE

Reunion

Autumn, 1995

A Primer Gray ‘68 Chevelle made its way up the narrow cobblestone road that wound up the steep hillside. Victor Kukorian glanced at his watch, 11:43. I’ve still got time, he thought. Just then he passed a turn off. He skidded to a stop, slammed the muscle car into reverse and turned onto a gravel road leading to an empty wooded cul-de-sac with a million dollar view of Mt. Hood and the Cascade mountain range.

He parked facing the main road and shut off the engine. The sun was streaming out from between gray clouds as Oregon’s chronic September rains had ceased for the moment. Victor rolled down his window and watched the steam rise off the excavated plot of a future mansion. The earthy fragrance of rain mixed with turned-up soil enveloped his sinuses. He breathed in deep, filling his lungs with clean Oregon air.

An old favorite by the Canadian progressive rock band, Rush, came on the radio, he cranked up the volume and started to sing along to ‘Red Barchetta.’ Victor reached into the glove compartment and removed a beer bottle brown glass prescription bottle. He popped off the clear plastic measuring cup, unscrewed the lid and poured just enough of the syrupy liquid to cover the bottom of the tiny cup. Victor was feeling apprehensive. He had not seen his older brother since he had first started high school. That was almost eight years ago.

Just a little nip to steady the nerves, he thought. That was all he could afford to take. He was down to the last two inches of the turquoise colored pain medication, and knew he could not get his late mother’s triplicate prescription refilled. A month earlier, while sorting through a shoe box stuffed with his late mother’s medications, he discovered the 3/4 full bottle of hospice formula morphine and had been sampling the opiate pain killer ever since.

He leaned his head back and allowed the licorice flavored potion to seep down his throat, savoring every last drop. He stuck his index finger inside the tiny plastic cup, wiping off the residue, and sucked the sticky substance from the tip of his finger. Victor then slipped the hospice formula morphine into his black satin Portland Trailblazers team jacket. The butterflies that had been fluttering in his stomach began to subside. He closed his eyes and inhaled the fragrant air and slowly released his breath – he felt better. Everything’s smooth… he thought.

Victor glanced at his watch and started the engine. He got back on the main road and less than a mile later turned a final bend and came to an arched cut-stone tunnel. On the other side stood Rocky Butte State Corrections Facility. Victor followed signs to the north wall and pulled into a small visitor’s parking lot.

From his vantage point loomed a set of gothic iron doors he expected his brother to exit from. Getting out of the car, he sat on the warm hood. The beep of his watch indicated high noon. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a smoke. As he exhaled, a shrill siren blasted, causing him to jump. He covered his ears. For the past seventy-five years, the venerable horn informed the citizens of Multnomah County of the noon hour. Victor looked up at the north watchtower. A white plume of steam marked where the twenty second blast originated.

Jesus Christ, that thing is loud! I didn’t know this is where that fucking sound came from, Victor said to himself as two guards pushed open the heavy iron doors and out poured the final batch of early release inmates. Several of the men turned back to the ominous prison and gave the cursory gesture of defiance. Victor laughed at the spectacle. He was surprised to see so many men being let go at one time. Looking around, he saw only a couple of other cars in the parking lot. An elderly couple standing next to an old Buick Riviera scanned the men, searching for their son. The other car held a busty middle-aged woman who was checking her face in the mirrored visor. A teenage boy sat on the door waving one had over his head, while excitedly pounding on the roof of the car, yelling, Dad, over here!

Victor watched the stampede of ex-cons make a bee-line for the tunnel and freedom. Steve Kukorian was the last man to walk through the iron gates. Victor sat, cigarette dangling from his lips, his beefy arms folded across his massive chest, grinning as he waited to see his brother turn back to the granite castle and flip it off. His bother however, did not turn around, he just kept walking toward the parking lot.

Yo, Steven! Over here, Victor yelled.

His brother seemed smaller and considerably older than he had remembered. His long sandy blonde hair still flowed wildly down his back. He had a full beard, dark brown with gray at the chin. He reminded Victor of Kenny Loggins during his ‘Jesus-look’ phase of the ‘80’s.

From ten feet away his big brother launched a small white duffel bag at him. Steve ran his hand over the gray primer hood, You still haven’t finished painting this piece of shit yet? he quipped.

Hey, I’ll get to it, Victor said. At least I’ve bought the paint I’m gonna spray it with.

Victor slid off the hood of the car and stood in front of his big brother. They paused to look each other over, then embraced and patted each other’s back.

Jesus Christ, Vic, you’ve grown, you’re as big as a fuckin’ house. How tall are you, how much do you weigh?

Six, six and around 360.

Fuck! You are huge! Looks like you’ve got a prison build goin’. When did you start hittin’ the weights?

I dunno… After I was discharged from the Navy and came home to take care of mom. Probably about three years ago, around the time she passed away. Victor said, You look pretty good, Stevie.

"Yeah, right, don’t bullshit me, kid. I was rotting away in there, the food didn’t agree with me. Hey, let’s get the fuck away from this shit hole, wattaya say?

The two siblings got into the car and drove down the butte.

I figure we would stop by my place to drop off your stuff, then maybe go out for a few drinks, have a nice supper, Victor said.

You’ve got to be kidding! I’ve been locked up for two thousand, eight hundred and fifty nine fucking days, and you want to take me to your ratty old pad?

Gees, Stevie, I just, thought you might want…

Fuck it, Vicky, take me someplace where I can get a big fat juicy steak with all the trimmings, a bottle of whiskey and gallons of ice cold beer. You and me, kid, are gonna get fucked up tonight! Steve said with a toothy grin.

Victor took his brother to the best bar and grill he knew, ‘The Goose Hollow Inn.’ They ate rare porterhouse steaks smothered in sautéed mushrooms and onions, baked potatoes loaded with gobs of butter and sour cream. They topped off their feast with double orders of Seven Sins chocolate cake and ice cream. After dinner the brothers started bar hopping. Switching from tankards of local micro-brewed ale to Kentucky Bourbon, killing shot after shot of Wild Turkey. It had been almost eight years since Steve had downed good whiskey and Victor expected his brother to pass out after a couple of hours of hard drinking, however, to his surprise, Steve kept raging on.

At ten thirty, the two arrived at, ‘Dimensions,’ a popular nightspot located under the James Morrison Memorial Bridge on the east bank of the Willamette River. The nightclub was unique, consisting of four distinct theme rooms. In the basement, ‘The Red Eye Saloon,’ drew a country/western crowd, complete with sawdust on the planked wooden floors and a mechanical bull in the corner of the room. The main floor was a supper club featuring steak and seafood with a Polynesian flair, where waitresses in grass skirts would stop serving on the half hour and do a hula routine in the aisles. The next level was entered by freight elevator. Upon reaching the second floor, the cage doors opened into a prehistoric cave setting that featured house music where the waitresses wore skimpy leopard print loin cloths and carried plastic caveman clubs. The top floor the, ‘Galaxy Room,’ catered to the hard rock crowd with live bands playing nightly. Dimensions was currently the hottest nightclub in Portland, receiving four bunnies in Playboy magazine’s annual publication of ‘The Hot Nightspots Report’.

The Kukorian brothers started at the Red Eye Saloon, and by the time they drank their way to the Galaxy Room, Victor was feeling no pain. Steve ordered Bomb Shots of Wild Turkey from a hard-bodied cocktail waitress clad in silver spandex hot pants and matching halter top. Hey, sweetheart, you’re lookin’ mighty fine. How ‘bout you and me take a little walk out to the parking lot, Steve said as the girl passed their table. He grabbed her waist and pulled her into his lap, whispering into her ear, his breath hot, reeking of cigarettes and booze. Let me show you the back seat of my car and…

The pretty young waitress forcefully pushed off his chest and pivoted out of his lap. She wagged her finger in his face and said, No touching. I’m not on the menu.

Steve laughed garishly as he watched her walk away. He looked at his younger brother and said, You’re slowin’ down, Vicky, drink up.

Victor dropped his shot glass into his beer and took a pull. The shot glass slid forward touching his lips. He reached his fingers inside the glass and removed it, slamming back its contents. He winced and belched. I am fucked up. Hey, Stevie are you ready to call it a night yet?

Fuck that, little bro, we’re just gettin’ started.

Steve lifted his hand and motioned for the waitress. The young girl approached, this time keeping her serving tray between her body and his.

Hey, baby, set us up again, Steve said, reaching for her waist.

She deftly thwarted his advances, becoming annoyed at his increasingly aggressive approach. When she brought the final round of drinks, Steve slipped his hand between her thighs and slid his thumb along her crotch.

No! Nancy Johannsen cried. She pulled away and slapped him hard across his face, then stormed off toward the restrooms.

Steve downed his fresh drink, stood and motioned for his little brother to follow. Victor, now in a submissive alcoholic stupor, followed like a puppy to the ladies restroom. Steve entered, pulling Victor inside before locking the bolt on the door. Before Nancy could scream, Steve placed a hand over her mouth and whispered in a menacing tone, Shut the fuck up – not a word or else I’ll rip your tits off!

Victor leaned against the wall and watched in a wide-eyed panic, sobering up fast. Jesus Christ, Steven, you can’t do that! he muttered.

Don’t worry, Vicky, just drop your drawers, the line forms behind me. Steve said, a lascivious grin on his face as he looked down at the young girl. I don’t think she’ll mind doing both of us.

Steve Kukorian began to laugh in low guttural tones as he unzipped and reached inside his pants.

CHATPER TWO

Noble Bishop couldn’t wait to get home. He knew his wife Nikki would be waiting, anxious to hear how the meeting with Mr. J. Emerson Phillipps III had gone. As he motored down Marine Drive, a dark and forsaken split-lane highway, he couldn’t keep the smile off his normally stolid face. Such an odd turn of events, he thought, while considering what he had done nearly seventy-two hours prior. Looking back, he considered it rather insignificant compared to some of the more exotic adventures he had been part of just a decade before. Yet, it was what he had done this time as a civilian, on this forgotten stretch of highway that might very well change both he and Nikki’s lives forever.

Scenic Marine Drive had once been a major thoroughfare. It stretched east to west, paralleling the mighty Columbia River that bordered Oregon and Washington. At one time, it had been the only way to get to the Portland International Airport from the East County. Just to the south of Marine Drive, Interstate 84 had undergone modernization. The improvements produced several new arteries designed to bypass the old two-lane highway

As for the few remaining roadhouse watering holes that had once thrived along the scenic drive, the last hold-out had closed six months after completion of the I-84 highway project, thus ending the era of the often colorful roadhouse taverns in the Portland area, turning Marine Drive into a deserted relic from a bygone era.

Bishop slowed his charcoal colored CJ-7 and came to a stop in front of a narrow two-lane bridge. There’s the spot, he thought. He stepped out of the driver’s seat and walked to the front of his vehicle. Skid marks indicated where the rails had been ripped from their stanchions. He peered over the side into the stagnant murky green water. The Competition Yellow ‘94 Corvette still rested belly up fifteen feet underwater. Bishop lamented, if they don’t remove it soon, it’s gonna sink further into the mud and be lost forever...what a waste of a fine automobile…

As he scanned the scene, Bishop recalled as a boy, he had lost more than one pair of rubber boots along the banks of this particular slough. When the sports car sailed off the bridge, the soft muddy bottom had absorbed the brunt of the impact. Ironically, it had also been what prevented the inebriated couple from escaping.

Bishop had been driving home from a particularly rough night’s work at Dimensions night club. He knew it was going to be a wild Saturday night when early in the evening, he had to escort a raucous cowboy from the bar who had been caught one too many times reaching over and refilling his beer mug. After Bishop pointed the man toward the parking lot, he looked up and saw a full moon peeking out from between overcast clouds. Coupled with the fact it was the end of the month, which meant payday, Bishop knew he was going to have a busy night.

Before the night was over, he and his security team had banished two ruthless thugs from the club, broken up four fights, and confiscated five fake I.D.’s. Bishop concluded his evening by conducting a final walkthrough from top to bottom. He ensured all the employees were finished with their cleanup and safely got away. As was his routine, he waited out front and chatted with his crew, ensuring everyone had a way home. On this night, a barmaid was kept waiting in the rain by her boyfriend, so while they passed the time, Bishop took down makes, models and plate numbers of all the cars left in the parking lot. The few cars remaining were not unusual. Often his bartenders confiscated keys before calling free cabs for customers who were too drunk to drive.

Once the barmaid’s ride arrived, he waved goodnight and took a stroll around the outer premises to ensure all the doors and windows were locked, as well as make sure nobody was passed out in back of the building. All was secure and quiet. Finally it was time for Bishop to call it a night and head for his Jeep.

Near his rig, he was met by the two drunken would-be rapists he and his security team had thrown out earlier that evening. The two drunk men had attempted to force their will on one of the new cocktail waitresses who worked in the Galaxy Room. By the time Bishop made his way from the security office located in a glass encased room on the roof of the former turn of the century textile factory, to the ladies restroom a floor below, the pretty young waitress had been forced to her knees. The older of the two, a bearded man with a long wild mane, had positioned the frightened girls head in front of his fully aroused penis.

Bishop pushed on the ladies room door. Prepared for the locked door, he used his key and entered the restroom. Bishop assessed the situation and moved forward, immobilizing the enormous man with an explosive kidney punch, then grabbing a handful of the bearded man’s hair, he guided him away from the waitress, slamming his head into the corner of the stall. With his pants around his ankles, the long haired man lost his balance and fell over the stainless steel sinks. The giant man’s eyes grew wide, filled with anger and rage as he witnessed his brother sliding off the sink to the floor. His reactions slowed by drink, the giant man telegraphed a roundhouse right to Bishop’s head, just missing him. He swung a haymaker, Bishop pivoted to his right avoiding the blow and grabbed hold of the man’s arm, using the big man’s momentum against him, by pulling him forward. The enormous man tripped over his own pants still bunched around his ankles and fell hard, slamming his forehead on the edge of the sink countertop. While the two assailants laid on the floor in a stupor, Bishop took the girl by the hand and as gentle as the moment would allow, assisted the waitress to her feet. He took his eyes off the men long enough to push her towards the door. Wearing vacant expressions, the two drunks were attempting to pull up their pants.

Bishop stepped between them, grabbing the hair on the back of their heads and slammed them into the side of the stalls. Stunned and bleeding, both men reeled in pain wondering what was happening. Seconds later five very muscular men rushed into the restroom and swarmed the men. The two drunks were jerked to their feet, with arms forced around their backs. Bishop grabbed both their hands and applied pressure between their knuckles, the painful come-along hold forced them to the tips of their toes, and assisted by the security staff, the pair were led into a private elevator. They were taken to the rooftop security office to be detained for police. However, Nancy Johannsen, the young waitress involved, urged Bishop not to make an official report of the incident. She just wanted to put the entire episode behind her. Bishop tried to reason with the girl, but ultimately he respected her wishes.

He gave her the rest of the night off and instructed her to take as much time as she needed before coming back to work. Bishop escorted her to the company limo and slipped her an envelope filled with cash. Take this, it’s a few days’ worth of tips.

Thank-you, Mr. Bishop.

Just Bishop, everybody around here calls me Bishop.

Okay, Bishop, thank-you so much for what you did for me.

I’m sorry it had to happen in the first place. Are you sure you’re gonna be alright?

I’m a little shaken up, but I think I’m gonna be okay. Thank-you for the limo ride, she said as she got into the car. She smiled and waved the envelope, And thanks for this.

Not a problem. Take care, Bishop said and closed the car door.

He went back to the security office where his men were still holding the two brothers.

On your feet, Bishop commanded.

His men lifted the two by the arms, facing Bishop, who was leaning on the edge of a desk with arms folded. You guys better thank your lucky stars that my waitress didn’t want to press charges. If I ever see either of you assholes on this property, I will personally make you regret being born. You got that?

Fuck you! Steve said, filled with rage. He glared at Bishop. You better watch your back motherfucker, ‘cause this ain’t over! Nobody disrespects me like this and gets away with it. I will waste you man!

In a flash, Bishop shot a side-kick to Steve’s head, the heal of his boot less than an inch from his cheek. Unimpressed by the display, Steve glared at Bishop and spat in his face. Angered, Bishop leaped in the air and twisted his body, unleashing a spinning kick that smashed the bearded man on the side of the head. Steve wilted and fell to the floor, stunned from the lightning fast blow.

Victor, standing to the side of his brother, became enraged and broke free from the two security men, and lunged for Bishop. They crashed on top of the desk. Steve grabbed hold of Bishop’s throat and squeezed. The security men were all over the giant, delivering debilitating elbow smashes to the head and torso. The giant man ignored the blows and continued to squeeze Bishop’s neck.

With an upward thrust of his arms Bishop broke free of Victor’s death grip, and slipped out from under him, falling off the desk onto the floor. Victor grabbed a security guard and flipped him over his back and smashed another in the face. He began to kick the downed security men as two other members of the security team rushed to intervene. Bishop got to his feet and squared off to Victor, delivering a swift openhanded chop to the giant man’s larynx, followed by a flurry of punches to his solar plexus that dropped the drunk to his knees gasping for air. Victor was then tackled and pummeled by Bishop’s enraged security team. Beaten bloody, the two siblings were carried out the back doors of the club and dragged off the property. Now, several hours later in the parking lot, Bishop again faced the two brothers.

I thought I told you guys to stay off this property. You’re so lucky the girl didn’t want to press charges, because I would have, Bishop said.

Listen you fuckin’ asshole, you don’t tell us shit! Steve Kukorian yelled. You’re gonna regret the day you ever met me, you son of a bitch!

Bishop grinned, Humph, what a mouth on you.

He maintained an air of nonchalance as he continued walking in the direction of his Jeep. The two men blocked his path, forcing Bishop to stop. Steve, the older bearded man’s face, showed signs of the beating he had received earlier by him and his staff, with a puffy split lip, a deep gash on the forehead, and bloody cut above his right eye. Victor, the other much bigger younger man, had a mouse under his eye and an angry bump on his forehead.

The bearded man took a drag off his cigarette and snarled, Hey asshole, where the hell do you think you’re going? Then flicked the butt at Bishop. Orange sparks burst onto his chest.

Bishop wiped the ash off his leather Barnstormer’s jacket and glared at the two Kukorian brothers. Gentlemen, it’s raining very hard and I’m getting wet. I’ve had a long night and am ready to go home, therefore I’m giving you the opportunity to turn around and just walk away. So go…

The hulking younger man stepped in front of his loud mouthed brother and without warning, charged Bishop. He swung a powerful roundhouse right aimed at Bishop’s head. Bishop dodged to the left and grabbed the wrist of his opponent and forced his arm around his back. Using the muscle bound man’s own forward momentum, Bishop tripped and slammed him to the blacktop, followed with a knee smash to the center of his back. The double impact immobilized Victor, leaving him gasping for oxygen. You keep telegraphing your punches, and I’ll keep taking you down, Bishop said, landing an elbow to his kidney. If you keep offering me your back, I’ll keep pounding your kidneys, too – you’ll be pissing blood tomorrow, that’s for sure!

The textbook close-combat Krav Maga inspired maneuver only took a matter of seconds, yet to perform the action, his back was left exposed to the loud-mouthed long-hair. Bishop felt a white-hot stinging sensation as a knife slashed across his right shoulder blade. Wheeling around, he looked up into the crazed face of Steve Kukorian, who was now wielding a pearl handled stiletto.

With a sudden burst of speed, Bishop kicked up at the knife, landing a glancing blow to Steve’s wrist. Feeling a sudden and unexpected rush of pain, Kukorian managed to hang on to the knife and pulled his arm back, giving Bishop time to pop to his feet. Bishop circled to the right concentrating on his opponent’s eyes, waiting for him to make his move.

I’m gonna slice you! Tonight you’re gonna die, motherfucker, Steve taunted.

A split second before Steve Kukorian made his play, his eyes widened, signaling Bishop to launch a spinning leg-kick that crashed into the side of Steve’s hand. The knife sailed through the air before skidding on the wet ground. The loud mouthed ex-convict barely had time to react to the pain in his shattered hand, when an elbow smash destroyed his nose, causing his world to go black. As he lay out, blood gushed from his mouth and nose.

Through the deluge of heavy rain, Bishop took a calming breath as he allowed his nerves to settle. His eyes shifted from one downed man to the other, surveying his handiwork. Victor Kukorian writhed in pain on his side curled in a fetal ball while his brother, Steve, was rigidly splayed out in the middle of a puddle with his wild eyes rolled back in his head, his body involuntarily twitching as he lay unconscious.

On the way to his Jeep, Bishop picked up the switchblade and stuffed it in his pants pocket. He considered calling the cops to pick up the men, but given the hour, not to mention the beatings they had received, he chose to climb in his Jeep and headed for his home on the Columbia River.

All in a night’s work, Bishop thought. He winced as he removed his jacket and tried to see the bleeding slash wound through the side mirror of his Jeep. The knife wound was starting to hurt now that the adrenaline was ebbing, making him anxious to get to his houseboat and have his wife patch him up. He shook his head, filled with exasperation as he envisioned her tending to his latest in a never ending series of work related wounds, having to listen to her again complain about his job. He inspected the four-inch slash in the back of his coat and put his fingers through the hole and whispered, Shit, I love this jacket.

Bishop reached around and tried to feel the wound on his shoulder blade. With the tips of his fingers he could feel the warm bloody gash, and knew it meant more stitches. I should buy stock in catgut and Mercurochrome, Bishop muttered. He pulled out some paper napkins from his glove compartment and placed them between his shirt and the wound. Then he started his rig and headed for home.

Less than two miles from his houseboat at Bertram’s Landing, a yellow streak whooshed by at well over one-hundred miles an hour. Judging from the boxed shape of the rear end, it appeared to be a fourth generation Corvette. Bishop loved all Corvettes and shook his head, marveling at the American made sports cars fluid acceleration. You’re just asking for trouble fella, that’s way too fast for these roads at night, especially when it’s raining, he thought.

Suddenly brake lights flashed! Ahead, Bishop observed the red taillights of the Corvette illuminate the pitch-black road. Seconds later the taillights veered to the right, and disappeared.

It was obvious to Bishop what had happened. The speeding sports car lost traction when it hit the slippery deck of the old wooden bridge. As Bishop approached, he flipped on his hazards, then toggled a switch on his dash to illuminate a rack of six, high-intensity fog lamps. The Corvette had crashed through the right side of the bridge’s guard-rail. Bishop turned on his CB radio to report the incident and location. He then grabbed a flashlight from his tool chest, ran to the side and peered into the rain swept murky waters. The car had sailed into the middle of the dark pool of stagnant water. He shined the light below but saw no signs of life. He ran back to the Jeep, set his parking brake, and grabbed the external winch control from the center console.

With urgency, he ran to the front of the Jeep and plugged the cord of the control into his 8,000 pound Warn winch and started to unravel the cable. Cinching the end of the steel wire into a loop, he formed a stirrup and placed his boot in it. With flashlight tucked under his arm, winch control in hand, Bishop wrapped his free hand around the cable and eased himself over the side of the bridge. On the way down he prayed the winch control cord was long enough to reach the waterline. He winced as the taught cable was dug into his cold wet hands. My kingdom for a pair of leather gloves, he said under his breath.

As the water reached his waist, Bishop lifted his body enough to loosen the Jimi-rigged cable stirrup. Blood seeped from between his fingers as he dropped into the freezing cold pool of stagnant water. His head and shoulders popped out of the slough.

Shit, this water’s cold! he said to himself, treading water.

Bishop swam to where the bubbles were on the surface, then dove down. He held his flashlight in front but the water was too murky to see. His blind descent unnerved him, not knowing if he was even close to the car. Moments later he touched the tread of a tire. He had located the car, and to his horror, discovered that the Corvette rested upside down and had sunk deep into the soft muddy bottom, sealing the doors shut, trapping the occupants inside. In response to the flash of his light, the frantic sound of pounding came from inside the car. In acknowledgement, Bishop tapped the glass with the end of his flashlight, relieved to hear signs of life. Bishop pushed off the bottom and shot to the surface and swam back to the winch cable.

Treading water, he started unraveling more cable. It unfurled at a maddening slow rate. He estimated an additional thirty feet of steel line would suffice for what he had planned. In the back of his mind, Bishop hoped he had enough to reach the submerged sports car. Taking the end of the cable and hooking it to his belt he gulped a lung full of air and dove. The frigid water stung the open wounds now profusely bleeding on his back and hand. As he dove, a strange thought ran through his mind of his wife, Nikki, insisting he get another tetanus shot. He hated needles and dismissed the non sequitur and focused on the matter at hand.

His eyes burned as he blindly felt his way back to the sunken sports car. His hand felt a tire. Feeling his way to the rear axle, he connected the winch hook.

With no time to spare, he pushed off the underbelly of the car and swam to where the winch control should have been. As luck would have it, the wind had picked up and had blown the device into some low lying tree branches. Bishop cursed aloud as he wiped the muck from his eyes. He dove below the surface and swam under the tree, kicked hard, thrusting himself out of the water far enough to grab hold of the branches, bending them under his weight. The control swung free. He grabbed the device and began to reel in the cable.

As the steel line tightened, a myriad of unpleasant thoughts ran through Bishop’s mind. Is the cable gonna be strong enough to hold? Will my parking break hold? If so, is my Jeep even heavy enough to support the weight of a water gorged sports car? Shit, Bishop, what a sight it would be for the rescue units, to find two vehicles in the slough then to discover my cold lifeless corpse when they pulled the Jeep off my frickin’ head. Why the hell don’t I hear any sirens yet?

As he listened to the unnerving whirring sound of the cable under strain, he turned his head to avoid the splintered fragments of wood sprinkling down as the cable cut into the edge of the wooden bridge. The over-revved whine of the electric winch labored under the strain. Adding to the stress of the situation, the relatively light CJ-7 skidded and bounced as it inched closer to the broken guardrail.

Finally the silhouette of the rear end of the ‘Vette became visible. Bishop wiped his burning eyes as the rain pelted his face. Still expecting to be crushed by his Jeep at any moment, he stopped the winch. The cable jerked hard and he could hear his Jeep bouncing and skidding closer and closer to the edge. He flinched as he looked up; he could see the Jeep’s brush guard looming directly overhead. At any moment he expected to be pile-driven deep into the mud under the weight of the plummeting vehicle. As he had always done, Bishop compartmentalized his fear and dove to the driver’s side of the car and attempted to open the door.

It was locked. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the switchblade he picked up earlier and used the pommel to smash the driver’s window. A blast of trapped oxygen rushed past his face. He blindly reached in and unlocked the door and opened it. He felt for a body. Grabbing a leg, he pulled. The occupant broke loose of Bishop’s grasp and raced for the surface, pushing off his face and shoulders. Above water, Bishop took the panic stricken man’s arm and wrapped it around the taught cable. The man immediately latched hold with both hands.

Are you okay? Can you swim? Bishop asked.

Yeah, I think so.

Good, then get to the shore!

My girlfriend’s still in the car!

Let me worry about that. Now get to shore!

Bishop dove again, felt his way into the car and grabbed the limp body of the girl. He pulled her out and swam directly to the bank. The man, still holding onto the cable, looked overhead when he felt the cable jerk. He noticed the precarious position of the Jeep and followed Bishop’s lead to the bank.

Is she alive? the young man asked.

Bishop began to administer CPR to the limp body. Between breaths he glanced at the trembling man. Climb the embankment and flag down the rescue team!

By the time the paramedics scrambled down the muddy bank, Bishop had miraculously resuscitated the young woman. She was a bit hypothermic and in shock, but no bones appeared to be broken and she was responsive. He concluded she would be fine after warming up and having a little rest.

The rain had stopped and the sun was breaking through gray cloud cover by the time Bishop finally pulled into the Bertram’s Landing parking lot. Steam rose from the wooden plank walkways that divided the houseboat community. When Bishop stepped onto the brow of his houseboat, the slight motion woke Nikki out of a light sleep on the couch. Wrapped in her favorite Indian blanket, she rose and walked to the front door. When she opened it, Bishop stood in the doorway, disheveled, his hand bandaged and looking worse for wear.

Did you fall off the pier again? she asked with a groggy smile.

CHAPTER THREE

The Meeting

It was not until Bishop awoke from his adventurous night, that he learned the girl he had pulled from the Corvette was the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the world. Mr. J. Emerson Phillipps III, who made Forbes annual listing with a combined net worth of thirty-six billion dollars. By mid-morning, the Bishop’s were being subjected to the constant ringing of the telephone. Journalists and paparazzi clamored for comments and personal accounts of the dashing water rescue of the famous heiress and socialite.

It had been arranged for Bishop to meet the father of Christine Phillipps in the Emerson Building, the newest and tallest skyscraper to grace the panoramic Portland, Oregon cityscape. Bishop was not impressed with the opportunity to meet such an esteemed entrepreneur and philanthropist, however, his wife and kid sister were giddy with excitement.

Bishop had been getting the full rundown on the billionaire since Nikki received the phone call from Phillipps’ corporate headquarters that morning. Nikki was well read on all the tabloid gossip; the society pages were always cluttered with exploits of the distinguished widower and his cover girl daughter. Nikki and Bishop’s sister, Michelle, mused about what kind of reward J. Emerson Phillipps III would dish out for saving his only heir. Bishop smiled and shook his head at how silly the two were being.

"You don’t get to be that rich by giving away your money," he said, sounding amazingly similar to his own father.

Secretly however, Bishop held the hope that perhaps he would get a new 50 HP outboard motor for his venerable 1966 Seaswirl runabout out of the deal.

The following day, Bishop arrived at the Emerson Building, and was given VIP treatment from the moment he drove into the underground parking garage. He had been offered a limo, but graciously declined, stating he preferred to drive. Two executives, dressed in conservative dark business suits, greeted Bishop at the underground valet station. One had a 35mm Camera and took several pictures of Bishop alongside his Jeep.

Hello, Mr. Bishop, my name’s Chip, and this is Henry, the elder of the two executives said. He kicked the Jeep’s oversized off-road front tire. So, this is the Jeep you used for the rescue, eh?

Yeah, it’s an ’86 CJ7. The last year AMC manufactured the CJ, Bishop stated.

It looks amazing, Henry, the rail-thin younger executive said, as he walked around the utility vehicle. I love the whole look, wheels and bad ass tire tread that goes up the sides, light-bar, and winch on the front. If I had a Jeep, I’d want this exact set-up.

Have you got a lift kit in this thing? Chip asked.

Yeah, a three and a half inch Skyjacker lift, and I’m runnin’ thirty-three inch Mickey Thompson Baja belted tires on Enke wheels. And that’s an 8,000 lb. Warn winch on the front bumper. It all comes in handy every once in a while, you know? Bishop continued.

Huh, I guess so. What you did has been the talk of the entire building, Chip remarked.

Yeah, no kidding, Henry added. It’s an amazing thing you did, Mr. Bishop.

Bishop waved off the complement and jested, Ah shucks, ‘twas nothin’… I’m just glad things worked out.

When I was a shave tail Jag officer, I drove one of these things for a light commander. Not quite this nice. I think it had a four banger in it.

Yeah, military Jeeps have always been four cylinder engines. I had a 350 V8 dumped into this thing. It’s pretty peppy, if I do say so myself.

Well, we appreciate the nickel tour of your rig, but the boss is waiting, so I think we should head on up, Chip said.

The executives lead Bishop into a private elevator. Once inside the ornate brass framed glass box, the two emissaries did not turn around to face the sliding doors as is usually the custom when one enters an elevator. They simply stared at the gray concrete wall of the elevator shaft. It looked strange to Bishop, making him feel ill at ease.

Get comfortable, Henry murmured. The other man turned to the panel and pushed a gold plated arrow button pointing up.

Are we going to the top floor? Bishop inquired.

No, sir, that would be the sixty-fifth floor, Chip said, cracking a slight grin. Mr. Phillipps turned sixty this year, so he decided to make the 60th floor his corporate offices.

As the elevator rose out of the underground parking structure the two executives no longer faced a blank wall, but a tremendous view of the Willamette River and surrounding Multnomah County. Bishop now understood why the men faced the wall in the underground parking structure, the view on the ride up was breathtaking. However, Bishop could not get past the thought running through his mind. He asked, Does that mean next year…you guys move to the 61st floor?

An amused expression of frustration crossed the executive’s faces as they glanced at one another. My guess would be, yes. Unfortunately, it probably means another corporate office shuffle to the 61st, the younger of the two men replied.

Huh, never let it be said Mr. Phillipps is eccentric, but maybe a little bit superstitious about those kind of things, Chip added.

Bishop mused, Must be nice.

Henry pointed to the bandage wrapped around Bishop’s left hand, What happened to your hand?

Never lower yourself over the side of a bridge without wearing gloves, Bishop said. He lifted his hand and ran a finger over his bandaged palm. The cable cut into my hand, but it’s okay.

A scar for your troubles, eh? Chip said.

Yeah, what’s new? Bishop replied with a smile.

As the elevator passed the 38th floor, there was a pronounced pause in the polite chatter as the three enjoyed the spectacular view of the city below. They watched as a red and white Coast Guard helicopter hovered low over the Willamette River.

So, what happens when he turns sixty-six? chuckled Bishop.

Henry quipped, I hear tell that an even taller building is in the works.

I wonder what kind of chopper that is? Chip casually asked, focusing on the Coast Guard helicopter.

Bishop replied, I believe the Coast Guard uses Sikorsky HH-3F’s, they’re called Pelican’s.

The two men turned their heads in unison, staring at Bishop. He raised his eyebrows and smiled, I guess I read that somewhere…I dunno, he said.

They were all laughing when the elevator slowed to a gentle halt. A chime sounded and the doors slid open. The two escorts stiffened and introduced Bishop to the man standing in front of them.

J. Emerson Phillipps III, greeted Bishop. The two executive’s slipped out of the elevator as Phillipps stepped forward. Bishop’s first impression was he was shorter than expected. He had a shock of perfectly coiffed white hair and was dressed in an impeccably tailored navy blue suit. Phillipps extended his hand to Bishop, who noticed tears filling the man’s lapis lazuli eyes. As Bishop firmly gripped his hand, Phillipps threw