The Friday House

By D K Gaston

Without warning or explanation, prominent Americans are carrying out horrendous crimes. All the killers have one thing in common: The Friday House Orphanage. What secret does this institution hold and can anyone find out the truth in time to stop more attacks?

• Language: English
• Publisher: D K Gaston
• Release date: Sep 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536526042

Book preview

The Friday House

The Friday House by D.K. Gaston is an action-packed thriller. It starts out simply enough with two seemingly unconnected terrorist attacks on American soil. FBI agent Jamaica Kurtz is given the assignment of profiling the two dead terrorists. Her ability to handle the task is questioned as she's just come off a long medical leave. Aided by instinct and newly discovered clairvoyant abilities, she discovers a trail linking the two terrorists with the Friday House, an orphanage still in operation. A sinister trail that leads all the way to the White House.

The characters are realistic and the author uses their frailties well in advancing the plot. While the reader might initially believe they've figured out the connection, the story is tightly woven so that only at the end do we get to the truth. An entertaining read, I give this book four stars.

—Reviewer, Literary Lovers Book Club

D. K. Gaston writes an amazing thriller that keeps you on the edge of your seat. I love the way Jamaica changes as she develops her skills. She had a long road ahead and could only take things one at a time. I love strong characters and they were abundant in this story. This book stood out to me for that very reason.

—Reviewer, Coffee Time Romance

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The Friday House is an engrossing novel by D.K. Gaston. Gaston draws the reader in from the very first page. The way that the different characters are introduced and incorporated into this story makes you want to continue reading it until the very end. 

This novel is full of heart-stopping action, government conspiracies, and murder that will definitely keep the reader on their toes. Gaston has created an intricately woven mystery with surprise twists and turns. The Friday House is a gripping novel that will be a sure delight for readers.

—Reviewer, Urban Reviews

Lost Hours

Gaston has written a great mystery that will keep readers guessing. Gaston pulls you into every scene and has you holding your breath. Hooks is a character that stays with you. He is a very complex character and a breath of fresh air, not falling into the very common one dimensional category. This is a great, modern mystery that readers will thoroughly enjoy.

—Reviewer, Readers In Motion Book Club

Lost Hours is a breathtaking novel by D.K. Gaston. Gaston created an emotionally-charged mystery that really tugs at your heartstrings. You feel the drive and frustration of Joseph as he tries to solve this murder that has plagued his life. Readers won't be able to flip the pages fast enough as the secrets of this mystery unfold. Gaston did a wonderful job of incorporating multiple characters that were an integral part of the storyline. You will feel every emotion of every character in this story. This novel covers a lot of topics including murder, police corruption and sexual abuse. Lost Hours is an absorbing murder mystery that will leave you guessing until the very end.

—Reviewer, Urban Reviews

Acknowledgements

I extend a special thanks to Larry Clos for his wonderful and invaluable insight. To Cecelia Salamone, Shirley Madden, Victor Holman and Jacob Holowach. I appreciated their patience, persistence and perspectives. To God, I thank him for giving me creativity and an amazing life.

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Chapter One

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Washington, DC – Monday, October 10

Weightless snow descended gradually onto the nearly vacant street. Visible tiny flakes mimicked shimmering lights of distant stars under the gleam of a streetlamp and the glow of a van’s headlights. As snow sprinkled the hard surface of the black 2004 Chevrolet Express Explorer, they melted quickly against the recently parked vehicle.

The headlights switched off, but the engine remained on. Two figures wearing long gray coats emerged slowly from the van. The driver was short, pale skinned and gaunt. He’d flicked a smoldering cigarette to the pavement. The second man was large and lengthy. His dark complexion came from his Greek heritage. The taller man picked up the discarded cigarette. He held out his palm facing it skyward toward the smaller man.

We’re not to leave any evidence, the big man muttered with a gruff voice befitting his size, waiting for the other man to retrieve the butt.

Taking it from his hand, the smaller man noticed that it still carried an ember. He put it back to his lips and took a long satisfying pull. Fine. I’ll finish it, he said glancing at his watch. It’s almost show time.

They crossed the street of the suburban neighborhood to the large colonial house where the FBI agent and State Senator lived. The big man walked up the steps onto the porch and waited patiently at the door. The shorter man lingered at the foot of the steps, reached into his coat and brought out a gun. He fitted it with a sound suppressor.

***

Darrin Davenport awoke as he always had, promptly at five a.m. He slipped out of bed without disturbing his wife,

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Colette. Entering the bathroom, he glanced back at his image in the large mirror mounted on the back of the door.

Not bad for forty, he thought.

Potbellies and turkey wattles drooping underneath the chin were the burdens afflicting his associates. He kept himself as fit as a twenty-year old sprinter and was proud of himself for keeping at it all these years. He kept a regular regimen of exercise and ate a healthy diet, thus avoiding the pitfalls of aging endured by his friends.

Colette, he remembered, had called him anal on many occasions. He gave an inward grin and then turned away from the reflection. Throwing on his jogging suit, he reentered the bedroom, noticed the contours of Colette’s body beneath the blanket and smiled. Five years of marriage and she was as sexy as ever.

They met the year before they married, during a city council campaign rally—her rally in fact. She was running against the incumbent, Becky Shettler. Darrin, an FBI Special Agent, always had a desire to go into politics, but never followed through on his dream. He felt compelled to find a candidate to support. And did he ever—when he locked gazes with Colette for the very first time. The energy instantly resonated between them. They dated—he helped her run a successful campaign—they made passionate love and a year later, they were married.

In their time together, both had prospered in their respective careers: Colette, a senator and he a Special Agent in Charge with the FBI. Darrin knew he had flown through the ranks with the agency because of Colette’s influence. It did not bother him one bit. In fact, he would have chosen to use her political power to an even greater extent for his career if she had not frowned upon it.

He could hear Toby, his German shepherd, nails clattering on the tile as he entered the hallway. They ran together each morning and the dog waited patiently at the foot of the stairs. After descending the stairway, Darrin greeted Toby by rubbing his hand through the dog’s fur and patting him.

Good boy, right on time.

Toby licked his master’s hand as though in agreement.

Darrin crossed the foyer to the front entrance with the dog trailing diligently behind him. At the door, Toby stopped, taking a protecting posture and began to growl. He stared at the dog curiously.

What’s wrong, boy, he asked concern in his voice. The German shepherd slowly backed away from the door. Reaching for the dog’s collar he tried to steady Toby. It’s all right, boy. Everything’s going to be okay.

The German shepherd’s eyes remained fixed at the door.

Darrin turned in the direction of the entry. A light tapping sounded on the door, twice. The dog’s growls grew. He wondered, Who would knock on the door at this hour? He knew it wasn’t anyone with good news.

Releasing Toby’s collar, he crossed into the living room and retrieved a pistol he had hidden beneath the fireplace poker holder. He had concealed guns throughout the house on every floor, unbeknownst to Colette. She always thought weapons did more harm than good. For years, she’d been an advocate for greater gun control laws and often took on opposing members of the senate. It was a wonder she ever married a man whose job required him to carry one.

Two raps came at the door again. Stuffing the pistol underneath the folds of his sweat jacket, he walked over to it as another two raps sounded, this time louder. Whoever it was grew impatient.

Who is it? Darrin called out.

No answer.

He dug a hand into his sweat jacket, taking hold of the pistol. His other hand held onto the doorknob.

It wasn’t the fact the knocks came at his door at such an early hour or the rashness of the pounding that unnerved him so; it was his dog. He’d never reacted this way before. Toby moved to his master’s side ready to attack.

Good, boy, he whispered.

As he turned the door handle, he half expected the person on the other end to have a shoulder pressed against the door trying to force his way in. No such action came about. Where he had anticipated staring into a face, he instead gaped into a barreled chest. He saw that in the entryway stood a large dark figure of a man.

Can I help you, he asked uneasily.

The stranger had not offered any type of hospitality or even tried to explain why he even stood at the door. He simply showed the whites of his teeth as he put on a mirthless smirk.

When the stranger took a step forward without so much as a word, Darrin drew the gun from his jacket and aimed it at the man’s chest.

Who the hell are you and what do you want?

Lightning fast, the man’s arm struck out of nowhere. The movement betrayed his size. A powerful palm folded over Darrin’s gun hand and began squeezing, gripping it like a vice. Dropping to a knee, winching in pain, the pistol tumbled to the floor. With his free hand, Darrin punched his fist into the large man’s crotch.

The smirk disappeared from his face, replaced with a heated scowl.

With fangs showing, Toby hurled himself at the big man. The man was ready. He stepped aside quickly with his captive in tow, letting the dog fly beyond the doorway and into the view of a smaller man standing on the walkway just outside the porch.

Gun in hand, sound suppressor attached to its tip, the second man fired once. The weapon barely made a noise. Toby yelped as the hot metal punched through his flesh. The German shepherd’s body, flinched, lost its momentum and dropped hard from the air, falling to one side on the porch.

Clamping his free hand on his captive’s shoulder, the giant yanked the other man’s arm, drawing him up and in as easily as an adult pulling on a small child. Releasing his iron grip, he moved his grasp to the FBI agent’s other shoulder, immobilizing him. He was defenseless against the strength of the larger man. The last thing he saw before his world went dark was the man thrusting his forehead toward his own.

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Chapter Two

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Langley, Virginia – Tuesday, October 11

At the NASA Langley Research Center, Deputy Director Margaret Crane rubbed her weary eyes. She had been reading Safety-Violation reports for the past five hours and was not even close to finishing. Glancing at the time on her computer screen, Margaret decided to stop for the evening. Her husband Mathew already admonished her for missing far too many meals with the family.

Mathew’s work schedule was as busy as hers. As a Section Chief in the Central Intelligence Agency, he always found a way to make it home for dinner. That’s what Margaret loved best about Mathew—his dedication to family. He’d often argue that his loyalties were placed in the following order: God, country, family.

Margaret, of course, knew this to be a total sham. How often had Mathew skipped an important meeting when one of his children called and said they needed him? How many times had she gone on a last minute business trip, leaving him to take care of the household alone? Margaret, at times, felt envious of Mathew. She longed to devote more time to her husband and children.

Margaret knew very well how she rated her responsibilities. Her career always came first and foremost. Mathew also knew this and accepted it. At least most of the time—lately, he’d been putting his foot down. Every night she had been getting home after the children were in bed and leaving before they rose in the morning. Her alibi was the piles of paperwork building on her desk. In reality, she had been bucking for the job of Director of the NASA Engineering and Safety Center. The current Director, David Sullivan, would be retiring soon. Mathew assured her she was a shoe-in, but Margaret never took anything for granted. That included a short affair with the retiring Director. With that, there were wild nights, passionate words, and solid promises made by him.

Logging off her computer, Margaret leaned back in her chair and stared at the photograph of her husband and their twins, Marsha and Marshall. A twinge of guilt swept over her. Was sleeping with David in hopes for a promotion worth the shame she felt? What drove her to do it? All of NASA’s upper echelon liked and admired her already. Like Mathew said, she was a shoe-in for the job.

Shaking the uncomfortable thoughts away, Margaret stood. Some shames have no penitence. In a few days, she would be named Director of the NESC. David would be long forgotten living somewhere in sunny Florida. Her family would never be the wiser. At least that was how she justified her action. Had it been worth it? The eyes in the family photo stared back at her threatening to renew her guilty conscience. Tearing her gaze away, she finally decided. Yes, it had been worth it.

Stepping into the hallway her attention drifted over to the dark empty room next to hers. It was David Sullivan’s. Staring, she slipped into a reverie. At 38, she would be the youngest person to hold the prestigious position of Director. Her image reflected back from the glass. The thought of dying her long blonde hair a darker color seemed an advantageous move. Men would respect a woman with dark hair. Green eyes observed the attire currently covering her body—it would need changing. A new wardrobe would be required—one that reflected the power of her new position. She smiled, delighted at the new image she foresaw and the new suit she was wearing in a not too distant future.

Margaret was out of the building. She laughed at a joke Tommy, the security guard told as she headed to the car even though she thought the joke was lame. This related back to her years of growing up in the orphanage. It was best to stay on everyone’s good side, be it laughing at bad jokes or tolerating someone’s stupidity. You never knew when you might need them. When she met Mathew thirteen years ago, she had used that very philosophy to win his heart.

Mathew left the army with an honorable discharge and high hopes for his future, after four years as an officer in the military. While serving, he was approached by a representative of the CIA and asked to join the organization. He accepted enthusiastically. It had been a decision he kept from everyone. His first undercover assignment had been overseas in China posing as a low-level clerk in the American Embassy.

Margaret was in China at the same time translating Chinese to English for the American ambassador. Each day she passed Mathew in the corridor, he would ask her to have coffee with him. Each day, she would refuse. At the time, she had her eye on the ambassador who had been recently widowed. He was on the short-list to be transferred to Washington, where upon his arrival he would receive a high-level position.

Despite her constant refusals, Mathew persisted. Finally, to end his steady onslaught of queries, she relented—a decision she never regretted. Two months later after making passionate love, Mathew broke protocol and told her he was working for the CIA. The months of lying about who he really was would have infuriated any other woman, but Margaret seemed pleased by the information. A year later they were married. Mathew used his influence to secure her a job with NASA and they had both been on the fast track in life as well as in their jobs.

Margaret slid behind the wheel of the red Lexus. She retrieved the cell phone from her purse and dialed home. Marshall picked up on the first ring. Mathew’s voice, somewhat distant from the receiver, was in the background telling their son to bring him the phone. Margaret smiled hearing her husband’s voice. Hello.

Hey, honey. It’s me. Letting you know, I’m on the way home, she paused, adding, As promised.

This must be the cold day in hell, he joked.

Don’t be silly. I’ll be home soon. Love you, hon.

Love you, too.

Cutting the connection, she dropped the phone back into her purse. Her stomach growled. She hadn’t had anything but energy bars and Gatorade the entire day, opting to do her regular workouts during lunch rather than eat. She did not regret the decision; she had the body of an Olympic runner as a reward. Her stomach growled again as she started the car. At home, Mathew would have dinner ready. She would, of course, reward him for his valiant effort after the kids were asleep.

The engine purred as she raced off the NASA facility grounds. Turning on the CD player, Margaret listened to Toby Keith’s, Honkytonk University. A minute into the song, she sang off-key along with Toby Keith.

"...A stay can't burn forever

And the brightest ones will someday lose their shine

But the glass won't ever be

Half empty in my optimistic mind..."

As she neared the freeway a dark pick-up was moving fast in her rearview mirror. The truck nearly hit her as it veered into the next lane. She blew her horn as the vehicle shot past.

The truck swerved back into her lane ahead of her. It started to slow down. Margaret cursed. Fixated on the driver ahead, she did not notice the second similar colored truck closing in on her rear. The driver in front slammed on his brakes. Reacting quickly, she tried to steer the Lexus away in another direction. The truck behind her slammed into the Lexus rear fender, forcing her back toward the first pickup.

She heard herself screaming as the car crashed into the back of the stopped pickup. The airbags deployed. Her head lurched forward. The Lexus engine automatically shut off. Unharmed—heart racing—she did not panic. Pushing her way past the airbag, she forced opened the car door. Two men stood on opposite sides of the car. Their dark gazes studied her. They started to approach. Kicking off her shoes, Margaret sprinted in the direction of nearby traffic, away from her attackers.

One of the men yelled, Get the subject.

The subject?

With no time to think about its meaning, she focused her efforts on making it to someplace safe. One of the men gave chase but could not keep up. Hope began to emerge.

A sudden sharp, sting pinched the nape of her neck. Her legs began to sway. She felt woozy.

What’s happening to me?

She wondered if she had a head wound. But no memory of striking her head against anything but the airbag came to mind. The pinching sensation in her neckline grew more encompassing. Reaching back, she felt the area touching something protruding. Margaret pulled it out and brought it around to look at it, confused by what she saw.

She spun around falling to her knees. It was a tranquilizer dart in her hand. In her fog, she watched the two men approach. They grabbed her by the arms and carried her back to the trucks.

Where... aa... are... yu... you... taking...me? Margaret was not sure if the words actually came out. She was weak and could barely think, let alone speak.

They placed her in the passenger seat of the second truck. She overheard the men discussing what they were going to do with her car. The man from the first truck disappeared from her sight. The second man jumped into the driver’s seat. He ran his hand through her long blonde hair so that he could see her face. Through her haze, she saw him staring, shaking his head.

What a waste. Margaret heard him say before drifting into darkness.

chapter Three

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The White House – Monday, October 17: 4:00 a.m.

The mood in the Oval Office was far from tranquil as President Ronald Henry Moss read over the Terrorist Activity reports. The previous administration took the United States to war on foreign soil. It was his job to get the U.S. out. Something President Moss found problematic. Since taking over the Presidency, terrorist activities tripled. No fault of his, he knew. These radical operations were planned years ago during previous administrations and only recently came to light.

Moss had always believed in diplomacy. Going to war should only be considered after all other avenues had been exhausted. The last president had done the opposite. Moss ran his political campaign successfully by persuading the nation to accept his point of view. In office for three years, he had promised America a quick and decisive resolution. Problem was that if we, the United States, simply uprooted ourselves from the war, it would be as though we were tucking our tail between our legs. If we stayed, our entire economy would suffer even more.

He had many eyes watching him. Some were hopeful, but many of his political foes expected him to fail. In either case, Moss did not really care what either group thought. He had a job to do as president and he would do it the best he could. All that mattered to him was the promise he made to the American people. Well, that and his wife.

Born Donna Lori Camp, she was the light of his life. It was she who had convinced him to go into politics over a decade ago. After coming home from the Gulf War as a hero, he completed his final year of college and earned a degree in law. He met Donna during the bar exam.

When Ronald spotted her, the first thing he noticed about Donna was her legs. She had the legs of a runner, muscular, but not overbearingly so. It was the summer—she was wearing a shoulderless, short blue dress. His eyes traveled up the length of her body stopping at her delicate shoulders holding secure the straps of her dress. The sun had tanned her skin to an almost almond color. Donna’s neck was slender and long—with auburn hair swirling in lighter shades at its base. What enthralled him most were her sea green eyes, which were like two jade jewels. Ronald lost his breath when she caught him staring. A smile spilled over her face as she blew him a kiss. Overwhelmed by her beauty, he had trouble concentrating on the bar exam. Afterwards, she approached him and asked if he would like to have lunch with her.

Public records of the war made him identifiable to many, even she knew about him. However, Ronald had known nothing about her. Their third date changed that when they shared a beautiful night of intimacy. She opened up to him and told Ronald about her dreams for the future. Much of it involved politics—a career for which he had no aspirations, though she had told him he would be perfect for it. War veteran, well breed and extremely handsome, he still was not convinced, at least not until she told him that he could make a difference to his country.

"The world is ripe for change and you could be an architect in that change. We both could," Donna had said.

And she had been right. They both ran for city council in New York and won. Because of their influence, they provided additional funding to schools, fought injustice, started charitable programs for the underprivileged and more. As their popularity grew, so did Donna’s ambition. To this day, Ronald was convinced if Americans had been ready for a female president, it would have been Donna reviewing these reports and not him.

In the face of the many urgings of his cabinet members to sway Donna to play the dutiful presidential wife, they never succeeded. At 40, she felt she was too young to give up her career as a New York congressperson. On occasion, Donna and Ronald butted heads on matters in Congress regarding several issues. Despite the fact that Donna was the apple of his eye, she could just as easily be a thorn in his side. But he loved her and would not change a thing.

Even though Ronald Moss would never say it, he wished Donna spent more time in the White House accepting her role as first lady. She never felt quite comfortable here or any place else for that matter. Having spent all of her childhood in a Michigan orphanage, Donna always felt she did not truly belong anywhere and never claimed a particular state as her birthplace. Since Donna did not talk much about her childhood, he wondered if that experience was her basis for not wanting children.

Returning his thoughts to the report, he flipped to the next page. He couldn’t understand why the two names appeared on the report. Scanning the rest of the sheet, President Moss let a gasp slip past his lips. There had to be a mistake. He did not know these individuals personally but he was familiar with their spouses. Putting the file aside, he dialed the home of the National Security Advisor, Christine Tracie.

Despite the early hour she answered on the first ring.

Yes, sir, she said knowing it was President Moss who called her.

We need to talk about the current terrorist activity report. Before heading to your office, can you come down to mine?

Of course, sir. May I ask, what this is concerning exactly?

The file was still open on his desk. He reread the names on the page. It’s concerning the recent terror attacks by Margaret Crane and Darrin Davenport.

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Chapter Four

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San Antonio, Texas – Three days earlier on Friday, October 14

Inside the passenger train, Darrin Davenport sat calmly in his seat reading, ‘The Cardinal and the Kremlin’, a novel by Tom Clancy. Seating was at full capacity. Traveling alone an adolescent boy no more than eleven sat beside him. In their two-days of traveling on the train, he learned that the boy’s name was Kenny. He and the young man had talked about sports, movies, television and girls. He liked him. Kenny was smart and knew what he expected out of life. A bright future lay ahead of him, Darrin thought.

With a scheduled stop in the next few minutes at the San Antonio station, Darrin put the book aside and glanced at his watch. It was almost time. His eyes switched toward the boy, playing a handheld game. Clueless to which game type it was, he set his mind to other matters. Excusing himself, Darrin retrieved his Nike carry-on tote bag from the shelf above his seat. He grunted lowering it.

Pausing the game, the young man looked intently at the piece of luggage. Is it heavy? Kenny inquired.

It is, as a matter of fact, he answered. Sitting, he placed the bag into his lap and then glanced at his watch again.

What’s inside? asked Kenny, his gaze still focused on the bag.

Darrin looked at him blankly. He had no response for the boy. In truth, he had no idea what was contained inside, nor did he know why he was on the train. He thought of Colette—she must be worried about him. Instinctively, he reached for his cell phone. The phone he retrieved was not his own.

That’s strange. Where’s my phone?

He tried to recall where he had gotten it. A faint recollection lingered in the back of his mind, but the harder he tried to remember, the more unclear it became. Deciding it could wait, he started to dial home. When he pressed the first digit, the cell phone began playing a melody. The question about where he was had faded. His desire to call his wife was gone. Turning the cell off, he turned to the young man who was now looking at him oddly.

Smiling, Darrin replied, Sorry. I seemed to have forgotten the question. What was it again, Kenny?

What’s in the bag?

Something special. Would you like to see?

The boy’s face brightened and then he nodded.

As he unzipped the bag, the conductor’s voice boomed over the intercom. The train was about to arrive at its final destination. Kenny turned away straining to listen to the entire message. He had told Darrin he was returning home from a military academy in Washington. His parents would be awaiting his arrival at the train station.

Widening the flaps of the bag, Darrin peered inside. The eleven year old, excited about being back home had forgotten about the bag entirely. If you’re interested, you can look inside, Kenny.

The boy turned. His eyes widened, first excited by what he was seeing. The next moment, his gaze turned to fear, realizing there was only one reason he would have what was contained inside the bag. Kenny started to jump up, but Darrin grabbed his arm tightly. Pulling him back into the seat, he placed one finger to the frighten boy’s lips. The boy complied. Releasing his arm, Darrin playfully ran his hand through Kenny’s hair.

I told you it was something special. What do you think?

Kenny’s voice was at a whisper. Wh... why do you have a bomb, sir?

A bomb? Darrin repeated questioningly. He stared into the tote bag. Several bundles of dynamite filled the sack. A short-coiled cable laid on top. It was there to discharge the explosive. All he had to do was yank on it. How did this get here?

Glancing back at Kenny, he saw that the boy was about to scream. He tried to say, don’t be scared, I’m with the FBI. I’ll handle this. But the words did not come. As the train came to a complete stop, the boy leapt from his seat and ran down the small passageway. Glancing at his watch again, Darrin saw that it was exactly five past six in the evening. The panicked child reached one of the train’s workers and they stared in his direction.

Darrin reached into the tote bag and grabbed the pull cord. Taking the time to glance outside, he saw two proud looking adults waiting for the doors to open. The man, an older version of Kenny—his parents, he thought.

Shifting his gaze to the terrified passengers converging on the unopened doors, he watched as they trampled over one another trying to make it to safety, their muffled and discordant screams of chaos, panic and fear filled the coach.

He thought of Colette and their time together. His life did not truly begin until he met her. She had always been his one constant—lover, friend, and better half. He could almost smell her favorite perfume—see her perfect smile—hear her childlike laugh. A tear ran down his cheek.

Darrin tugged on the cord.

***

That same day - Friday, October 14 – Los Angeles, California

Margaret Crane entered the Federal Building on Wilshire Boulevard at fifteen minutes before four. Many of the employees would be leaving for the day soon. Before being granted access into the main lobby, she had to first go beyond a metal detector manned by several guards near the front entrance. She passed security without incident moving further inside, stopping only to ask for directions to the women’s rest room. Thanking him, she headed across the vast lobby directly for it.

Once inside, she checked underneath all the stall doors ensuring the room was clear. She was alone. Margaret emptied the odds and ends of her purse onto the baby-changing table furthest from the door. Glancing at a clock on the wall, five minutes had passed since entering the building. She organized the lipstick, a pack of KOOLS, hand sanitizing lotion, a mirror box and glasses case—the spilled items on the table were not what they appeared to be.

Ripping open both ends of the pack of cigarettes, six empty circular cavities were revealed. On one side of the pack, two vertical slits were located peripheral of the holes. Inside the eyeglass container, was a hollow two-inch cylindrical pipe, grooves spiraled within the inside surface. Opening the mirror, she removed the reflective glass from its housing revealing a trigger mechanism. Margaret began assembling the parts. Splitting the eyeglass case apart, it slid together in the slits of the cigarette pack, serving as the handgrip.

Within sixty seconds, Margaret had fit together a plastic gun. Placing the weapon onto the changing table, she picked up and opened the small hand sanitizer bottle. It emitted a pungent foul odor that caused her nose to wrinkle and eyes to squint. She positioned the bottle next to the gun and reached for the untouched silver colored lipstick container. Pulling the cap off, it had not stored lipstick but something else. She held the cap with two fingers as she shook the tube over her palm. Several small round white plastic shells dropped from the cavity. Closing her fingers over the spherical balls, she pushed the cap back on and tossed the empty container into an adjacent wastebasket.

Picking up the hand sanitizer bottle, she opened her hand and poured discolored liquid over them. As she watched, the shells changed from white to dark grey. The stench worsened. Margaret then placed the toughened plastic shells into the makeshift gun clip. Once all six projectiles were inside, she stuffed the weapon into her purse, slowly raised the changing table back into its sheath and glanced at the clock once more.

Two women walked into the rest room laughing as Margaret placed the purse under her right armpit. Walking over to the narrow sinks, she turned on one of the faucets and began washing her hands. Whatever she poured on her palm had a foul odor and certainly wasn’t a sanitizer. The stench was overpowering and she wanted it off her. Regardless of how much she soaped and rinse, the stink would not go away. Her palm reddened at her efforts; still she struggled to remove the horrible smell. After the women exited the stalls, they washed their hands. One of them stared at Margaret as she dried her hands, with a concerned look on her face.

You’ve been there for quite a while, dear. Are you okay? Do you need to see someone for help, The woman asked.

Margaret looked confused. Do I need to see someone, she repeated in a daze. Now both women looked concerned. Returning her gaze to the mirror, she stared at her reflection. Her hair was a mess—like she had not taken care of it in days. She looked at her clothing without recognition.

Where am I?

You’re in the Los Angeles Regional Office building. Are you okay? the second women asked.

Margaret thought of her husband. Ignoring the women, she opened her purse. Not mine, she said with uncertainty realizing the purse was not hers. Opening it anyway, she searched for a phone. She found the weapon instead. Pulling it from the bag, at first not recognizing what she held. I have a gun? She questioned aloud.

The two women screamed. They turned and ran from the rest room. She tried to explain that the gun was not hers, but the words did not come. Placing the weapon onto the sink counter, she continued searching for a phone. She found one, opened it and began dialing. The phone played a familiar melody. Closing the phone, she placed it back in the purse. She straightened her hair as if nothing was wrong. Margaret heard shouting and running feet. As they drew nearer, she picked up the plastic gun.

Glancing at the clock on the wall, she saw that it was five minutes after four. A male guard burst into the rest room. Before the man could utter a word, she aimed and pulled the trigger. A hole opened in the man’s forehead. He slumped lifeless to the floor. She approached him and unfastened the gun holster on his belt. She had his gun now—a nine-millimeter Beretta. The firearm felt natural in her hand, like carrying a hairbrush. Along with knowing the make and model of the weapon, she knew how many rounds the bullet clip held. Turning her attention to the guard, his body blocked the door. She quickly shoved him out of the way.

Entering the corridor, Margaret saw that it was filled with stunned employees and civilians. She lifted both guns chest high and fired indiscriminately into the crowd. People were clawing for the exits while security tried to fight its way through the horrified crowd. Exhausting all but one bullet in the nine millimeter, she surveyed the devastation she had created. Ten people were dead, and four were badly hurt. She knew somehow with absolute certainty that every round fired left a fatal wound in her victims. Margaret doubted any would make it through the night.

Five minutes had passed since the shooting began. Four guards stood before her, ordering that she drop the weapons. She let the plastic gun plummet to the floor. It was empty anyway. All the guards—three men—one woman—had their weapons pointed at her. Of the four, three had a dogged thirst in their eyes. They wanted to shoot but held back their rage because one of the male guards, perhaps their supervisor, was begging her to put the nine-millimeter down.

He said, Don’t make us shoot you! You don’t want to die, not like this!

She saw compassion in his eyes. Tears welled in hers. I’m so sorry, she said despondently. Lifting the nine-millimeter, she placed it firmly underneath her chin. The muzzle’s hot metal burnt her skin—she did not flinch.

Margaret thought about Matthew and the kids before pulling the trigger.

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Chapter Five

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Los Angeles, California – Monday, October 17: 7:45 a.m.

After six excruciating months of acute physical rehab, Special Agent Jamaica Kurtz was ready to return to work. Six months ago she almost died in the line of duty. A dirty Missouri police detective had shot her in the skull and left her for dead. If local area FBI agents had not found her soon afterwards, Jamaica was sure she would be dead. Although grateful to be alive, it came with a price.

She had been hearing strange voices in her head and seeing ghostly images that she could only interpret as being premonitions of some sort. FBI psychologist, Darlene Hamilton had been examining her since she regained consciousness following her injuries. The doctor explained it away, believing the lodged bullet trapped in her brain, damaged her temporal lobe resulting in her hallucinations and mysterious voices.

At the beginning of their sessions, Jamaica had argued with the doctor about her premonitions. However, in the past couple of months, she was of the same mind as Dr. Hamilton and went as far as to say that she no longer suffered from the symptoms. Jamaica herself was a student of psychology; she knew very well that the mind could make even the most bizarre situations seem real. She had to be careful of what she allowed herself to believe. Damage to her temporal lobe not only could cause a disturbance to her auditory sensation and perception, it could also alter her behavior and cause severe paranoia. All of which would be frowned upon by the FBI. Rather than risk her career, Jamaica decided that these phenomenon were nothing more than a product of her own mind.

When she entered the Los Angeles Regional Office building, security was at high alert after the shooting incident three days earlier in its lobby. The FBI, so far, had kept the name of the shooter away from the media. Rumors of the shooter ran rampant, ranging from O. J. Simpson to the Pope. She did not place stock in any of them. Besides it really wasn’t her problem, it would be the job of other agents to iron out fact from fiction. Reaching the first security checkpoint, a familiar face greeted her—it was Henry Stark, head of building security.

Well if it isn’t the miracle lady, he said as a smile stretched across his thin face.

Jamaica grinned and said, Hello handsome.

He examined her forehead for a long time before speaking. Looks more like a birthmark than a bullet wound.

Thank God for that. I would hate to have to wear a baseball cap to hide it.

His smile disappeared. Seriously. How are you doing, Agent Kurtz?

I’m fine, except for an occasional headache. And strange visions, she did not add. So what’s the scoop? What happened here, Henry?

Some nut job walks in and starts shooting up the place. No questions asked. When security surrounds her, she ups and shoots herself just like that, he explained. Pausing, he ran a hand through his hair. I tried to talk some sense into her. She wasn’t having it. One moment, she had a face...the next, it was gone. He shook his head mournfully.

Jamaica shifted her gaze across the lobby. Not far from the restrooms, she spotted the yellow tape cordoning off where some of the victims had died. How did she get a gun through the metal detectors and x-rays?

He grimaced. She had one of those plastic pop-guns, like in the movies, disassembled in her purse. It didn’t appear as a weapon when scanned through the x-ray machine. His eyes drifted toward the women’s bathroom. Bradley is dead. She shot him in the john.

Bradley had worked here as long as Henry. They were close. She had liked him as well. The media had said that the attack was a terrorist act but no group had claimed responsibility. She had her doubts about that, however. A gun shooting just did not carry the media impact that radical groups crave. The train that was bombed on the same day fit the bill—a large body count and global media attention. Just like the incident in the federal building no group was claiming the action.

Jamaica put her hand on Henry’s shoulder. He’ll be missed. Bradley was a good man.

He nodded averting his eyes. She thought he might be crying. Rather than embarrass him further she told him she would see him later and headed to the elevators. She stopped near the restrooms looking down at the spot where the shooter killed herself. The area wiped cleaned, no longer showing evidence that there had been a shooting except for the police tape. Perhaps because of Bradley’s death, she felt compelled to move closer to the spot.

Standing over the tape she wondered what was going through the shooter’s mind as she pulled the trigger, killing herself. Henry mentioned a plastic gun. To her recollection, she never actually worked a case where anyone used one. In fact, a technical colleague once told her they didn’t exist. Dropping to one knee, she examined the scene closely. Even without knowing the killer, she could almost picture the woman lying on the floor.

Without warning, a sharp jab erupted inside her skull. She was having one of her headaches—a drawback of surviving her head wound. Squinting in pain, she cried out, Shit!

Jamaica brought a palm to her left temple. When the pain finally subsided, she opened her eyes. The space before her was no longer filled with the image of the dead woman. In her place was a young girl no more than five years old. She lay on her back stiffly on the floor, positioned in the same fashion as the shooter. Her eyes were open although with no life was held in them.

Jamaica looked around to see if anyone else could see the child. Many of the nearby crowd stared at her including Henry Stark and his security team, whose gaze was the most condemning of all—filled with concern about her current mental state. People moved by her wordlessly but watchfully, perhaps a fear of invoking another incident. She shrugged off their stares. She did not bother returning her gaze to the little girl; Jamaica knew she would no longer be there. Instead, she stood, turned and walked to the bank of elevators.

Several minutes later she exited, heading not in the direction of her cubicle, but toward the office of the Assistant Director in Charge, Webster Finder. He called her at home personally and requested an early morning meeting before she began her workday. The impromptu appointment made her nervous. The ADIC gave no explanation. Had Dr. Hamilton said something to make Finder worry about her return from medical leave?

There was no point in glossing over the question again. She would find out the answer in the next couple of minutes. Jamaica entered the ADIC office. The administrative assistant, Jill Winters, greeted her with a smile. Walking around a red oak