The Deadliest Animal

By D.R. Avery

In a world where the president is a loud-mouthed tyrant whose election is questioned at every turn, Harley Thomas has the scoop of a lifetime. All he has to do is report what he overheard behind the abandoned Texaco station and then ride the glory to a Pulitzer prize.

But Harley is a washed up journalist, wrung out and abandoned by friends and family, spending way too much time in his bottle at the Horse and Bridle and too little at the office. The outside world hardly encroaches on his private one and when it does, he wishes it wouldn't. Still, his ego is intact and when an old colleague makes fun of Harley's job doing rewrites for the local daily newspaper, he finds himself saying way too much and when the story appears in print, Harley becomes the administration's number one target!

Suddenly finding himself running for his life, Harley's only hope for staying alive is to use the skills he learned and mostly forgot as an army ranger. And when staying alive is not enough, Harley calls on the skills learned and mostly abused as a reporter to make his pursuers pay.

That's when the administration finds that the deadliest animal is the one with no way out.

By the author of Mystery at Bristol Square, this is a fictional account of what happens when government conspiracies turn out to be real.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.R. Avery
• Release date: Sep 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370645947

D.R. Avery

D.R. Avery has been a journalist, editor, college professor, private detective, free lance writer, blues musician, and child of several other borderline savory pursuits. He holds a B.S. in Journalism from the University of Florida and an M.A. and PhD. in Journalism and Mass Communication from Southern Illinois University. The award-winning author of over 80 freelance and scholarly publications and invited presentations, many of which are concerned with history and the Civil Rights Movement, his background prepared him to research and write "Mystery at Bristol Square," in which the Civil Rights Movement and the riots of the 1960s figure prominently.He lives with his wife and the deer and the bear in the mountains of Western North Carolina.

Book preview

Prologue

At the tail end of the night trick, the security gate at Bagram Air Base was foggy and cold in the hour before sunrise.  After a dull and eventless night, the soldiers pulling the graveyard at the checkpoint were perking up in anticipation of going off duty.  Still, the coffee was worn out and the men had little to do except smoke and stare off into the fog.  The night trick was light duty, Maj. Yancy Hollins, the CO, liked to point out to the new transfers when the rotation orders came through.  It was the major's warning for those on the graveyard to be vigilant against the dangers of sloth.  The caution was wasted on Cpl. Andy Brown, who was due for transfer stateside in thirty days in any case.  Not that he was any less conscientious than the other men; it was simply that few were permitted on or off the base at night and little ever happened on the graveyard.  Still, the Taliban and ISIS tribesmen were giving Iraqi forces fits and you never knew what was going to happen next.

Only the unusual hour for passage made Brown take more than his normal single look at the small man wearing a raincoat as he approached the gate from the base terminal.  He guessed that the man had just come in on the Air Mobility Command plane from Germany.  Brown could have sworn the man was American since he deported himself in the timeworn familiarity fellow countrymen show in dealing with one another in a foreign land.  The man, who looked gray despite the bright lights, carried a thick briefcase in one hand and held out his passport and his travel authorization with the other.

Good morning, the man said in English untouched by accent.

Sob ba khair! said Brown in the local dialect upon discovering the man was Afghani.  He was secretly pleased that he was able to speak a few words in the language, all picked up on the gate.  Most people were happy to hear their mother tongue but, surprisingly, this man didn't seem to understand.

What? the man said tersely

I said, good morning in Dari.

Oh, sorry, he said in a kinder voice.  I didn't understand you.  I like to practice my English.

Doesn't sound as if you need to, Brown said, studying the documents.

Abdul Adheem Amadhi's Afghani passport identified him as a rug merchant from Bagram.  Brown glanced down at Amadhi's briefcase, certain that he recognized the brand, Tourister, but scruffy and old.  A man, Brown guessed, with a taste for American goods.  His documents showed Amadhi had been in Hamburg at an international rug and carpet show.

One moment, please, Brown said, glancing over at Pvt. Winter Jones, who had duty with him this night.  A February birth date and being the nineteenth child in the family had left the man from Georgia stuck with the only name his parents could think of at the time, Brown supposed.  Jones was conscientious--he wanted a military career--and despite having been on the gate only three days, Brown felt safe in leaving him alone with Amadhi.  Besides, Jones had already demonstrated a certain guardhouse mentality.  Brown stepped into the guardhouse to find 2nd Lt. James Warren, Captain of the Guard, trying unsuccessfully to wipe coffee stains off one of his reports.

Sir . . .

What is it, Brown? Warren demanded.

I've got this man outside.  He's carrying an Afghani passport . . .

So what?  This is Afghanistan, you know, he said, pointing into the night.

A meticulous man in his own plodding way, Warren was not pleased over having to redo the report.  Not a particularly good officer, he nonetheless knew that style and not substance often bought promotion, and a reputation for sloppy work at H.Q. was a sure ticket to oblivion.  Brown didn't like the lieutenant and it was obvious that the feeling was shared.  However, Warren was ambitious and recognized that kicking around the son of Brig. Gen. Nathan Brown wasn't very smart.  Still, he couldn't help needling the corporal when he could.

But this guy . . . I'd swear he's American, Brown said, wishing he had passed the man through.

The statement got Warren's attention.  What makes you think that, Corporal? he asked, taking the offered documents.

Well, he kinda acts like an American, Brown began, then hurried on.  It's his language, sir.  He doesn't have an accent.

Lots of people don't have accents.

But this guy sounds like, ah . . . I don't know, like a disc jockey.  You know, no accent at all.

Warren sat back in his chair.  You’re making a big deal outta the way he talks, Corporal?

Yes, sir.  But it's not only the accent.  I don't think he speaks Dari, either.  I spoke some Dari to him but he cut me off.

You speak Dari?

Well, no sir, just a few words.

Then you don't know what th' hell you talking about, do you?

I'm simply relating what I saw, Lieutenant.

Warren studied the documents several seconds.  "Does he look like this picture, Corporal?

Yes, sir.  But. . .

These look all right to me, Warren pronounced.  I got this shit here to do over again, he said, indicating the stained report.  Send him through.  Brown went outside to stamp the documents as Warren mumbled under his breath:  Prick.

Amadhi seemed tense beyond the stress of waiting. Everything okay, Corporal?

I'm curious, Mr. . . . Brown paused to look at the name on the passport.

Amadhi, the man offered.

Yes, sir.  I'm curious why you're arriving on a military flight?

The man laughed but it seemed to Brown that it was forced.  Believe it or not, Corporal, we do have friends among you Americans.  I just caught a flight from Hamburg with one of your pilots.  Is there anything else?  Amadhi's smile had turned anxious.

No, I don't guess so.  Brown stamped the documents.

Thank you, the man said as he walked through the gate and into the fog.

What wuz that about? Jones asked.

Don't know, Brown mused as two black SUVs roared through the gate without stopping.

Who you reckon they after? Jones said as they watched the cars disappear into the night.

I don't know, Brown said.  Maybe the guy we just let through.  He just didn't seem right.  You'll see what I mean after you've been on the gate for a while.

But Jones wouldn't.  They had no reason to suspect it, but they were doing their last hours on the checkpoint.  Before the day was over, Lt. Warren was transferred to South Korea, Pvt. Jones to Japan, and because he was near separation, Cpl. Brown stateside.  They never knew what hit them.  Each wondered what he had done that precipitated the action, but the military as usual in such matters was inscrutable.

Chapter 1

Out in the Maryland countryside it was pitch black, but near the city the autumn night glowed softly with diffused light.  Even with no moon, here total darkness would never encroach.  A distant street lamp cast slabs and fingers of shadow around the abandoned Texaco station.  Parked, nearly touching the shadowed side of the building, was a black Ford Explorer.  Nearby, two men clung to the dark.

They were unalike, these two.

One, middle aged and big, was raw boned with a face turned to mean.  His wrinkled white shirt outlined bulges about his torso and the tail flapped free in back as his loose tie did in front.  His body was a nervous tic.  The other man, young and thin, looked as if he would be welcomed eagerly into the family as a new son in law.  His suit was the latest cut and no shirttail or tie would ever be out of place.  He was outwardly calm, but his eyes flamed for reasons of their own.

While the young man leaned casually against the SUV doing nothing visible, his associate paced constantly, popping gum and chain smoking Camel Straights.  Obstinate in all things, the big man refused to switch brands even though filtered Camels were cheaper and tearing off the filter was no big thing.  As the night passed, they talked.  The young man spoke softly, his words precise.  His companion was animated, sometimes loud.

They're running late, the big man said to no one in particular, his smoke-burned voice harsh, rasping.  For a time, the young man watched his partner pace, but said nothing.

They know their job, the young man finally said.  Clinical.  A simple statement of fact.

Yeah, the big man said.  But, if they fuck up, it'll be our asses in a sling.

They know what they're doing, the young man said, his voice barely a whisper.

It'd help if we could depend on them, the big man said, lighting a fresh cigarette and grinding out the butt of the previous smoke with his heel.

Lucas and Wiedman are good agents, the young man said.

Well, maybe Lucas is, but I'm not so sure about Wiedman, the big man continued.  That bastard couldn't piss without help.

The guy's sick, said the young man.  He won't admit it but you can tell.

Why doesn't he quit?

You know better than that.

Yeah, said the big man.  We got the same problem.

You worry too much, the young man said, lighting a cigarette.

Yeah?  Well, I'm not like you.  Things don't go right, it bothers me.  How many cracks we gonna get at . . .?

Shut up, the young man interjected quietly but in a tone of voice that shouted its order.  Keep your voice down.

Nobody's around, the big man quarreled, his voice now barely audible.  I just want to hear your phone ring and know it's done.

Complaining is not going to make it ring any sooner, the young man said, then added, You smoke too much.

They lapsed into silence.  The big man paced; the young man watched something internal.

When the cell phone call came, the cool night air amplified the sound and the ringing seemed to echo off the nearby building.  The big man stumbled as he was caught in mid step.  His associate reached for the cell phone hooked to his belt.  With the second ring, they heard a glass bottle tip over and roll across concrete behind the station.

What th' hell was that?  the young man said, his composure momentarily showing frayed edges.

Christ!

It came from the trash bin, the young man said, again in control as he brought the phone to his ear.  Check it out.

The big man headed around the car toward the trash bin.  The open air bin, constructed at the rear of the station, had two five foot high walls with one end open to facilitate the removal of trash.  They had given the bin and the abandoned Chevy sedan parked next to it no more than a casual glance.  As he looked over the wall the big man could see the bin contained empty beer cans and wine bottles, and from the smell, deposits of dog shit.  At first, he did not see the form huddled directly beneath him.  When he saw the man he could not see if his eyes were open or not.  Drunk.

Nothing but a goddamn wino, the big man said, relieved.  The figure did not move.  Don't know daylight from dark.  Hey, buddy!  Nothing.

Hey, Buddy!

Still the figure did not stir.  The big man turned as he heard his companion's footsteps behind him.

What is it?

Just some wino passed out, the big man said.  No way he's going to remember anything.

You sure?

Yeah, I'm sure, the big man said irritably as they turned toward the car.  What did he say?

It's done but they screwed up.  We got nothing to do, the young man said, then dropped his voice: They killed Simpson.

The man in the trash bin huddled closer to himself.  There were other words, but he did not want to listen; he wanted to die.

Chapter 2

Oh, God, he mumbled.  Never been so sick.

He lay still, his rumpled, sweat soaked clothing sticking to the smooth vinyl of the sofa, afraid to move lest his head explode and his stomach rise up.  With the careful method of one with specific and recent memories of such things as a guide, he held his eyes closed and began to examine the points of discomfort about his body, all the while chasing ghostly snatches of thought which flitted through his head.  Total distress.

Harley Thomas wanted to die.

Testingly, he moved his right leg toward the edge of the sofa and let it drop over the side.  There was no sudden, spinning nausea, but as a hedge his eyes remained closed.  The left leg followed and that done, he paused.  He slitted his eyes and the burst of light almost overpowered the pain in his head.  Before he could prevent it, his eyelids tightened and that hurt too.  The second attempt was slightly less painful, but at least he could tolerate the small light filtering into his brain.

Maneuvers had reached a critical point.

His head remained on the arm of the sofa, his lower body and feet twisted so his feet hung to the floor, but the pressure on his right side was tooling up for new pains there.  He opened his eyes further and forced them to remain unblinking.  Pausing only briefly, he began the torturous task of working his upper torso into line with his legs.  Pushing the pain into the back of his mind, he held his body rigid and began to rise slowly, but still his stomach preceded him.  It came surging into his mouth to sting his tongue and constrict his throat.  He fell to his knees doubled over in a diaphragm wrenching bout of dry heaves.

Christ, he whispered when his heaving had stopped.  He could feel soreness settling into his midriff.  When he could, he stood up and paused, trying to make sense of his surroundings:  A small, sparsely furnished living room with bare walls in need of paint.  The room had a single closed door.  The sun’s slant through the uncurtained window suggested that it was late afternoon.

Where am I? he croaked as he lurched toward the door.  He vaguely recalled having been drinking at the Horse & Bridle Lounge.  But the memory slipped away into a fog.  Besides, thought hurt.  Outside was a short hallway with three openings.  Directly across the way was a bedroom, the door open, containing a bed with a lumpy mattress partly covered by a rumpled sheet.  On his left he could see part of a kitchen counter through the second doorway.  Next to the bedroom was the bath and he suddenly discovered a terrible need and rushed through that door.

Another day had begun.

He was still a little drunk when he emerged from the bathroom a half hour later.  Of medium height and build, he looked shorter and somehow frailer than normal.  Once handsome, at 54 his wrinkled face was grim beyond his age and the effects of the previous night's binge.  His prospects did not seem at all encouraging.  And some troubling thought hovered just beyond awareness.  Something he should recall but could not.  He dismissed the puzzle.

There seemed to be no one in the apartment.  Whose apartment?  His head might be messed up but he was certain he had never been in this place before.  He walked into the kitchen to rummage in the refrigerator.  It was as bare as the living room, its only contents a quart of milk and a quart of orange juice, both nearly empty.  Not that it mattered; he couldn’t have put anything in his stomach anyway.  As he turned toward the door his nose caught a hint of...what?

Dog shit?  He didn’t see a dog in the apartment, but the smell was everywhere.  It had remained unnoticed before his trip to the bathroom, he supposed, because the taste in his mouth had been so foul.  He checked his clothing.  As he turned his head, the smell increased and then he located the source:  a caked brown stain on the seat of his trousers.

Where’d that come from? he mumbled.  Back in the bathroom he ran water on a towel and wiped away as much of the stain as he could.  The smell was lessened but it still made him gag.  He splashed aftershave on the stain to cover the smell.  Somebody was going to be upset over the towel, he thought as he tossed it into the corner.  At the end of the hall was a staircase which he descended.  He found himself in a storeroom, a liquor store judging by the contents.  There was a door across the room which he cracked open to get a view of the other side.

The Horse & Bridle Lounge.  So that's where he was.  The apartment must be Buddy's, the owner.  The bar's name with its aristocratic pretensions was an attempt by Buddy to give the place some class.  The attempt failed.  More often than not it was called the H&B or more simply, the HO.  It was still just a redneck bar.  There were several customers at the bar and they and Buddy were watching some Fox talking heads show.  Harley let himself through the doorway, somewhat embarrassed to meet Buddy, but there was no other way out of the place.  He bellied up to the bar before anyone noticed him.

So, you finally up, Buddy said, irritation crossing his pudgy features.

Yeah.  What happened?  He asked sheepishly.

You don't know? Harley shook his head.  You got stinking again.

I know that.  How'd I get here?  Harley tilted his head up.

You come banging on the door raisin' hell about four this morning.  I couldn't let you wake up the whole town.  I let you sleep on my couch.

Oh, shit.  I'm sorry, Buddy.

That's okay, man, he said smiling.  But next time, how about going home, huh?

Yeah.  Thanks.  A pause, then: Uh, Buddy, where's my car?

How should I know?  Outside, I guess.

Yeah, Harley said, walking to the door.

What, I gotta worry about your car now? Buddy called after him.

I gotta go to work.

You work the day shift, Buddy laughed.  You’re a little late, don’t you think?

The rusty blue 1996 GMC Jimmy was on its last leg, no question.  It still ran, after a fashion, but lately the battery had been going dead at frequent intervals and he hoped this was not one of the times.  The driver’s seat had strips of duct tape covering a large tear in the seat back where a screwdriver Harley had carelessly left in his hip pocket had torn a large hole. Without the duct tape, the foam rubber stuffing would catch in clumps on his trousers.  Miracle, the engine grated into life and he pumped the accelerator several times as insurance against a stall.  Clouds of blue smoke billowed from under the car.  He started to drive.

It was an easy drive into town.   Few traffic lights stopped him and in a few minutes he turned into the alley next to his building.

Damn it to hell!  Someone had taken his parking spot, provided by the Springfield newspaper to make up for the low salary commanded by the Hagerstown reporter.  Anthony, the proprietor of Mister Anthony's Hair Styling Salon, was probably making a house call, for his parking space was empty.  Despite the grief he was sure to get when the man returned, Harley backed the Jimmy into the spot and killed the motor.  His office was on the second floor and was easier to reach by the rusting fire escape at the rear of the building than walking around to the front.  Accordingly, he knew no one on the ground floor.  The steel fire door opened on a short hall.

Office doors opened at intervals down the length of the hall.  The building was a dead end or beginning for small businesses, depending upon perspective, and the turnover in tenants was brisk.  The bureau office of the Springfield Daily News and Advertiser held the record for length of occupancy--three years.  He unlocked the door and stepped into the one room office, almost slipping on the stack of morning mail and newspapers heaped behind the mail slot.  He scooped up the mail and newspapers and closed the door gently.

The office contained a green metal desk that looked as if it had been purchased at a Scratch and Dent Sale, a high mileage desktop computer, a dusty police radio which he usually left on, an equally dusty IBM typewriter, and a Western Union Teletypewriter with tape punch attachment, the last two unused, but a constant reminder of the small importance attached to the bureau by the Springfield newspaper.  In a computerized world, he was reduced to working among dinosaurs.  Still, the office’s sofa was free and provided an adequate bed.  He threw the mail and newspapers on the desk and checked to see if any messages had come in from Springfield.  Nothing.

Retrieving the D.C. newspaper from the stack on the desk, Harley dropped on the sofa.  Skipping the front page he turned directly to page seven, which contained items of interest to readers in western Maryland.  The lead story would make a good rewrite:  the previous night's school board meeting.  He turned the remaining pages in the first section searching for a second story to fill the quota for the day.  On page twenty three, what he wanted, a one column piece on the letting of sewer contracts, was buried next to a seven column advertisement for a no stain underarm spray.

Settling into the swivel chair he inspected the mail.  There were only the usual bake sale announcements, public relations sheets on the new home builder in town and the electric bill which he threw in the Out basket.  Everything else went into the trash.  Picking up the newspaper, he began.

Harley ripped out page twenty three and folded the rest of the paper so he could see the story on the bottom of page seven. Glancing quickly over the two stories, he thought about a lead for each before he booted the computer and went on line.  Dial up!  He had to be the only reporter in