Vileness

By Rowan Waters

A woman under the protection of a secret network dies a monstrous death. Will Samantha Brooks unravel the ugly truth before another brutal murder is committed?

VILENESS
Through a clandestine network set up by her brother, Samantha Brooks helps victims of abuse vanish without a trace. Settling into the quiet Wisconsin town of Clanwallace, she starts up a new chapter of the network. Everything is on track as she begins to expand the network and identify victims of abuse. When one of her rescues is found brutally murdered, she covertly inserts herself into the center of the investigation. Armed with just a few clues, she relentlessly digs for the truth only to be entangled in the web of secrets shrouding the network. Secrets that are darker and more sinister than anything she could’ve imagined. Can Samantha put an end to the barbarity?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rowan Waters
• Release date: May 24, 2018

Book preview

Contents

Also by Rowan Waters

Novella Promotion

Vileness

Bonus Excerpt: Pitiless

About the Author

Also by Rowan Waters

Samantha Brooks Thrillers

Vileness

Pitiless

Unbreakable (Novella – Available Free)

Sintra Mysteries

From Sintra with Love (2018)

Cracked Diamond (2018)

Deep in the Night (Novella – Available Free 2018)

rowanwaters.com

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Birds feed on birds, Beasts on each other prey,

But savage man alone does man betray

John Eilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester, ‘A Satyr Against Mankind’

Prologue

Matthew’s fingers tightened their grip on the armrests. His nails dug into the soft leather as he waited for the enigmatic Samantha Brooks. The delay had him rattled but he blamed the slip in his well-practiced self-control on the stillness pervading Clanwallace. For the last twenty years, conflict had ruled his life. It defined him. The repetitive clatter of AK47s, the rush of incoming rocket-propelled grenades and the eerie silence seconds before they smashed into the compound would forever remain ingrained in him. Not for him the incessant tweeting of birds, the droning of lawnmowers or the lethargic barking of dogs.

What he missed most about being on the front line, embedded with the troops, was the camaraderie of the men and women in their sense of duty; bonds forged through mutual trust and selfless acts of bravery while under fire. When the paper withdrew him from the battlefield, citing PTSD, his life had deteriorated one fluff piece at a time. Each article had sullied his hard-earned reputation even further. During his more introspective moods, he’d admit he had been off his game. High-risk behavior and lapses of judgment, coupled with lazy investigations, had resulted in scorn from his fellow journalists, albeit behind his back.

And that was how he found himself sitting in Samantha Brooks’ studio. Her macabre tale might be his salvation. Even though there had been a few setbacks in his career, he prided himself on being a consummate professional. Clumsily, he shuffled a stack of crime scene photographs as if they were an oversized pack of cards. Although the changing images passed in a blur, after months of examination they remained scored into his brain.

Matthew’s eyes darted to the door when the handle moved, willing it to open. The door stayed shut. He blew air through his lips, laid the photos face down on the table and stared unseeing at the blank paper. Another five minutes and he was out of here.

Dragging fingers through his hair, he watched in despair as strands of his youth floated down onto the polished desk. He grunted and blew the offending wisps away. Then, dipping his head and pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed, plucked an e-cigarette from his pocket and surrendered to his cravings.

While drawing hard on the pseudo filter, his eyes flicked to the glowing, luminous green tip. He shook his head at the ridiculous color simulating a smoldering cigarette. The attempt to blow smoke rings with the sweet-smelling vapor went awry and he snorted at the absurdity of the wretched substitute.

The door burst open and the plastic cylinder dropped from his lips and bounced on the desk. A woman entered. She stood erect, not cowed by her height. Matthew shoved the e-cigarette into his pocket, thankful for the virtual embers. Glimpsing the furrowing of her brow, heat rose from his neck into his face. He pulled out the e-cigarette and wiggled it in the air.

Don’t worry, it’s only an e-cig, he said. Ms. Brooks?

Yes, she replied. Her eyes searched his face.

Matthew sprang up and made a grab for the chair before it tipped over. The woman’s face revealed a refreshing candor and a smile broke out on her face. She extended a hand in greeting. He leaned forward and clasped it, introducing himself. Bracelets encircling her wrists tinkled melodically. Samantha’s physical appearance was imposing. For some bizarre reason his image of her was of a nervous woman, certainly not this vibrant and confident person. Her chestnut hair and green eyes were gorgeous. A beautiful version of her good-looking brother.

Thank you for seeing me, Samantha. May I call you Samantha? Matthew asked.

Please, call me Sam, she said, and the tension eased from around her eyes.

He nodded. Sam it is.

Sit, she commanded. You’ve been a right pest wanting to see me. And you’ve resorted to using your famous name to achieve that.

That’s not entirely true. And my name doesn’t really hold much sway over people these days.

Honesty. How refreshing. So then, why are you here?

Not wanting the interview to be about him and his failures, Matthew ignored her inquiry and attempted to get down to business. Isn’t it time you told your side of the story, Sam?

Is it? she countered.

Matthew realized convincing her to reveal her account of the events wasn’t going to be straightforward. Her reluctance to speak out was what led some to believe she was complicit in the reprehensible acts but had somehow walked free. Close to seven months had passed since the trial had concluded and still Samantha was hesitant to disclose her side of the story. If he was going to succeed where many before had failed, he needed to establish a good rapport between them.

Matthew, what makes you think this interview will result in a Pulitzer Prize? Her eyebrows rose.

The chair creaked as he squirmed at her astute comment. Am I that obvious?

A heavy sigh. You’re all the same. Selfish motives.

Partly, you’re right, Matthew conceded.

So, Matthew. What’s your selfish motive? Convince me why I should be the one to oblige your ambitions?

It’ll get me out of my slump, put me back on top of the heap and it’ll be cathartic for you. He offered a brittle smile.

Samantha’s harsh, ambiguous laugh jarred the tranquil atmosphere. Matthew cringed at his blunder. Of course she wasn’t looking to purge her soul. She could’ve done that with the first journalist to arrive on her doorstep. He held his breath and readied himself to be booted from the house.

Okay, maybe it’s time to reveal what happened, she decided.

Caught by surprise, Matthew was dubious of her sudden compliance. That was unexpected.

That’s me, Matthew, impulsive. Then there’s your crooked smile. She cocked her head.

He hadn’t expected Samantha to capitulate quite so readily and so he was hesitant about where to begin. Despite the months of phone calls to her steadfast and loyal supporter urging him to convince Samantha to agree to a meeting, he now wondered if there was a catch. Even if there was, he wasn’t about to let the moment slip through his fingers, reminding himself he needed an epic story to resurrect his career.

Switching on the palm-sized recorder and positioning it on the desk between them, he asked, Why don’t we start with you and Tommy as kids?

No, not with my happy childhood, she said, fingers mimicking quotation marks around the word happy.

Matthew had identified her childhood as the driving reason behind her riveting story. He pushed aside her refusal for now, knowing he would circle back to her youth.

Okay, let’s jump ahead then. How about your teens? he suggested.

Boring, she said, wrinkling her nose. What photos did you bring? Let me re-phrase that. What photos did they allow you to have?

Matthew nudged the photos across the desk. Samantha, remaining impassive, picked up and shuffled the photos as Matthew had done, except her purpose was to place them in the correct order. Her hand hovered over the first photo. She flipped it over and placed it face down, selected the second photo from the pile and passed it over.

Let’s start here. A moment’s hesitation. No wait, it’s only right to begin at the beginning. She snatched back her original choice and laid it on the table.

She retrieved the rejected first photo and tentatively handed it over, the edges creased from her grip. Matthew’s hand lingered over her clenched fist and, glancing at her, saw that her eyes were moist. She tilted her head to gaze at the ceiling, stemming the flow of tears. He heard her harsh intake of air as he released her hand and took possession of the crushed photo.

Betrayal on so many levels. She gritted her teeth and didn’t explain further.

He held his tongue, his pen poised and the green light on his recorder glowing. And he waited.

Matthew swallowed hard, fighting the wet tickle bubbling up in his throat. His rasping cough broke the oppressive silence as he cleared the phlegm. Ready whenever you are, he stammered, dropping his gaze.

Chapter One

Not in a million years did I think I would find myself nestled in my childhood bed but here I was. I blinked at the sharp light, laser thin, slicing through the chink in the drapes and spiking my irises. Yellow blurred spots swarmed my vision. Confused at the ambush, I slipped the comforter over my head, shut my eyes and counted to five. I emerged from under the bedclothes, no longer blinded and more compos mentis. My regular morning ritual was to be up before dawn to go running. The North Branch Trail along the Chicago River was my addiction.

On my mind this morning, however, wasn’t the path I normally pounded but rather Tommy, my brother and staunch protector. He had finally consented to me venturing into the field for the network. Growing up, Tommy and I had made a solemn pledge to set up a safety net for victims of domestic and sexual violence, enabling victims to create a new life for themselves without fear or consequence from their past.

Tommy, through his tenacious attitude and hard work, had created a clandestine network in New York. The result was all we had visualized. Awareness campaigns run by organizations fighting domestic abuse benefited us when convincing victims to take the first step into the network. My small contribution to date was to cultivate friendships with ER nurses with the goal of locating abuse victims and supplying those names to Tommy, who in turn arranged their safe passage. Tommy had always insisted I stay out of the field while he achieved our vision.

When Kalu—a victim of violence in his home country of Nigeria—partnered with Tommy, the opportunity had arisen to press my case to get fully involved. With Kalu’s support and my badgering, Tommy had yielded. After quitting my job and subletting my apartment, my singular mission now became to seek out victims of domestic violence. And that was how I found myself temporarily back in my childhood bedroom. A bedroom that held so many destructive memories. The need to prove to my monstrous dead father that he was wrong about me drove my determination to succeed. All my life he’d drilled into me how pathetic I was, a burden to society and of no use to anyone. A memory that lurked in my subconscious and one I could never fully let go.

I threw the worn comforter aside and scuttled from the narrow bed. Before hitting the road in my new role as Seeker and while still based in Chicago, I had a surprise contribution to offer the network. My plan, which I was about to set in motion, involved mingling with university students.

Laid out on my bed were jeans, T-shirt and a hoodie. Even though my thirtieth birthday was drawing near, with my short shag haircut and lanky frame, no one would be the wiser. The clothing, along with a pair of gym shoes and a wig with long blonde hair, went into my backpack. Then I dressed in a bland skirt and blouse for my mother’s benefit; she was unaware the bank was no longer my place of employment.

My breath came short and sharp and I closed my eyes, determined to stay resolute even as a little voice reminded me of the dangers my plan presented, and worse, the possibility of implicating Tommy. The breathlessness eased and opening my eyes, I stared into the tarnished mirror and fixated on the dull reflection—an image of a stark room bleached of personality, an image of a childhood destroyed. My eyes slid to my survival mechanism still hanging in the corner; a tatty, cracked punching bag Tommy had secured to the ceiling for me years ago.

Shaking off the gloom, I grabbed my bags and skipped down the stairs, past the unfashionable living room and into the equally outdated kitchen; the air warmed by the buttery smell of fresh pancakes.

My mother was setting the scarred pine table for breakfast, her trim body dressed in a conservative knee-length skirt and an intricate gold chain adorned her buttoned up shirt. I suppressed a giggle at her longhaired hound dog slippers, the ears sweeping the floor. As her head bobbled in time to music only she could hear, her shoulder-length pageboy skimmed her shoulders.

Good morning, Samantha. Her large hazel eyes sparkled with her typical formal greeting. Sit. I’ve prepared your favorite.

Morning, Ma. That’s what enticed me down. I tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear and pecked her creased cheek. Today I chose the red chair, hooked my purse strap across the back, and dumped my backpack on the floor.

My mother glanced at the bag, raising her eyebrows. Planning on staying away for the night and not tell me? A small quaver in her voice urged me to curb my tongue.

Why hadn’t I put the bag in my car first? No, just going for a run after work.

No, Samantha, don’t. Remember what happened to your father.

Ah, Ma, that was five years ago. I’ll be fine. Anyway, it’ll still be light, I answered, not wanting to contemplate or discuss the asshole who had caused so much misery in our lives. My father had been out jogging when he was permanently removed from this earth by a hit and run. Sensitive to how much my mother had adored the brute, my mouth stayed shut.

Why must you always make me worry? she sighed. Eat up, or you’ll be late for work. Don’t forget I’m staying at Aunt Sylvia for the week so I won’t be home when you get back tonight.

I haven’t forgotten, I responded contritely. Give her my love. The idea of only seeing my mother periodically after today saddened me. Even though we were struggling to repair our fractured relationship, we were moving in the right direction.

Samantha, have you heard from your brother? Tears welled up in her solemn eyes.

Ah, Ma, you ask me that every morning. The answer is still the same. Tommy isn’t ready. But when that day arrives and he wants to talk, you’ll be the first to know.

Did you tell him I’m in therapy? And I’m progressing well.

Yes, I said. Which hadn’t garnered much sympathy from Tommy when I told him.

Why can’t he get his anger off his chest, like you did? she asked.

I don’t know, Ma. Don’t forget he left before Dad died. There were other issues at play.

She shook her head, pressing her lips into a tight line.

***

On the drive to Chicago State University, my audacious plan cartwheeled in my brain as I hunted for potential holes. Five minutes from campus, I swung in at the local gas station to use the restroom. The stench of stale urine was repulsive. Skipping around dubious puddles, I stepped into a stall. Determined not to touch the floor with bare feet, I balanced with wobbly legs on the closed toilet seat. I succeeded in switching from suburban garb to student chic—hoodie, jeans, T-shirt and gym shoes. I adjusted the blonde wig over my short auburn hair and with a glamorous flick, tossed the tresses over my shoulders. Something I’ve never been able to do with my hair. The reflection in the mirror staring back at me was a stranger and, nodding in approval, I slipped on large framed sunglasses.

At the university gates, I paid my five-dollars and then searched for parking near the gray Honda. A slot was available two cars away. Was the universe voicing her approval? Either way, it was fortunate.

A cute boy winked at me as I scraped past him to enter the lecture hall with the other last-minute stragglers, all of whom scrambled for a seat. Standing at the rear of the lecture hall, the steep seating allowed me to gaze over the whole class without being seen. My eyes skirted over the students until I picked out my target. Scooting two levels behind the brunette, I took a seat and watched her. Her hands fluttered in the air, her companion nodded vigorously and they burst out laughing. A nervous hush descended over the chattering students. The lecturer had entered the room with his finger pressed to his lips.

He stood in front of his audience, legs spread like a rock star preparing to perform. Anticipating an air guitar routine, I was sorely disappointed when the act wasn’t forthcoming. After basking in his arrogance for a few seconds, he removed his jacket, pushed up his glasses with his middle finger, read into that what you will, and turned to the lectern.

After a curt good morning, he started his long-winded explanation on the differences between low self-esteem and high self-esteem. Had his entrance been a not so subtle message? He droned on and on and my brunette began to fidget as were many of the other students but they all remained seated. This particular lecturer frowned upon anyone walking out on him while he delivered his pearls of wisdom. Talk about low self-esteem.

After an interminable discussion, the lecturer said an abrupt good-bye and marched out, slinging his jacket over his shoulder. Brunette sprang to her feet and hugged her friend goodbye. She fiddled with her phone then bent to pick up her bag and her hair cascaded across her face. She raised her head and we made eye contact. She rapidly looked away and sauntered out the room. I waited a minute, then tracked her and kept an eye on her from a short distance.

As she approached the gray Honda, her young face puckered in confusion. She stooped and scrutinized the side of the car, spun round and threw her hands theatrically into the air. Brunette whipped her additional appendage from her bag and made a call. That was my cue to make my approach.

You look mad. I said, tossing back my gorgeous hair.

Air trickled out between Brunette’s lips as she studied me. Yeah, some douche slashed my tires. She glanced around as if the culprit might still be hanging around. A few students loitering in the parking lot turned at her incensed tone and stared.

Can I help?

Who are you? she asked, grinning discreetly.

I’m in your psychology class. Isn’t Prof. Gordon such a bore?

Brunette’s brown eyes narrowed. I don’t remember seeing you.

A couple of students were now curiously hovering about, listening to our exchange.

Probably because I’m always late and sit at the back. And then as soon as I can, escape, I laughed conspiratorially.

Know what you mean. Listen, my father isn’t picking up. Would you mind giving me a lift? she asked.

Sure. Where to?

My father will be the easiest. He works at Trust Bank.

Hop in, I said.

Brunette settled into the passenger seat. I reversed and joined the queue of students scurrying out the parking lot. Then I drove along East 95th, under the rail tracks, right into South Cottage Grove and past Gately Park, the familiar route to the bank. I twisted my wrist and checked my watch; it was time to act if we were going to achieve what had been set in motion.

What’s your name? I asked.

Betsy.

Well, Betsy, I’m starved. Feel like pizza or a burger? I asked. Or are you in a hurry?

Betsy considered the offer. Seriously? she said, and burst out laughing. Sam, you can stop faking. There’s no one in the car to hear us. What the hell, okay. I vote for pizza and beer.

I chuckled, You’re right, I’m nervous and trying to stay in character. Pizza it is.

At Gino’s we sat and made small talk about school. Betsy attempted the impossible: to find a name common to both of us amongst the student body. I gave her ten out of ten for trying. The neighboring customers and pacing waiter would assume two students were gossiping about their peers over pizza and a jug of beer. At the end of our meal, Betsy excused herself to use the restroom, signaling for our plan to move to phase two.

When Betsy returned, I hooked an arm around her waist and assisted her back to the car. I drove slowly out the parking lot, watching Betsy for the telltale signs that the drug she had taken was taking effect.

I hope I didn’t overdose myself, she mumbled.

Just close your eyes. We’re almost there, I encouraged.

Betsy drifted off; her head slumped against the door and saliva trickled down her chin. I wiped away the drool and continued driving towards the abandoned factory—one of many on the outskirts of a city struggling with a high crime rate and failing businesses. We had half an hour to complete our devious plan before Betsy passed out, complicating the situation. My little car bumped and dipped along a rutted driveway and we swayed back and forth. I entered the factory yard and cut the engine.

The crumbling old factory, which nature was valiantly reclaiming, offered the required privacy. Moving quickly, I tugged Betsy from the car and laid her on her back amongst the debris. I gagged her and bound her hands and feet. My hands trembled as I rooted around in her bag until I found her phone. I hauled it out and photographed her state of distress. Then I removed her gag and bindings and made her comfortable. I popped the trunk, powered up the laptop and uploaded incriminating documents of fraudulent activity at the bank to Betsy’s phone, and forwarded them to her father’s private e-mail. The documents, which Betsy had pilfered, plus Betsy’s life appearing to be in danger, would ensure our success. We were banking on it, excuse the pun.

I shook her shoulder. Betsy, can you talk? We need you to sound disoriented but identifiable.

She nodded her head. I can do it, she slurred.

My heart thumped as I dialed her father’s number. I switched the phone to speaker.

What now, Betsy? an ill-tempered voice answered.

Betsy stuck out a skew tongue at the phone. I clapped a hand over my mouth, stifling a giggle threatening to erupt.

Daddy, Daddy. Please help, she blubbered. They have a gun at my head. Please do as they say, I’m so scar—

I whipped the phone from her hand, tapped on a voice distortion app, and told the chairman of the bank what was required of him if he planned on seeing his daughter again. Documents known only to him, proof of Betsy’s abduction and an address for the drop off were in his inbox. The money had to be delivered by midnight or the documents would be released to the Securities and Exchange Commission. Once the money was in our possession, he would be given his daughter’s location. I severed the call. Betsy and I were confident he would uphold his side of the arrangement without involving the police. Now, to re-secure Betsy in such a way that when she was rescued, her kidnapping appeared genuine.

I’m sorry you have to be trussed up, Betsy. My guilt was palpable.

Relax, Sam. We’ve gone over this repeatedly. I’m ready.

Betsy’s father, a criminal and a man with a distrustful nature, even of his daughter, might order blood tests to ascertain if her kidnappers had drugged her. We decided to err on the side of caution and used a horse sedative.

I know you are. I’m worried you’ll be here alone for hours. These buildings aren’t safe, for man or beast.

Just go. We’ll meet in three days. And, Sam, don’t you dare come back. Stick to the plan.

Her thick tongue mangled all her words but the sentiment was clear.

We embraced and I pecked her goodbye before pulling the hood over her head.

Bye, I whispered to my recruit.

My only consolation for the subterfuge was the knowledge it was for a just cause. Driving out the ancient factory, I headed for another abandoned building, this time across town. Lucky for us Chicago has no shortage of dilapidated and decaying buildings.

A small hill rose up in front of the building we’d canvassed. The base of the hill was chock-full of rusted and derelict cars. My old car wouldn’t be too out of place. I wedged my old Mini between a BMW minus its wheels, tilted precariously on bricks, and an ancient F250 truck covered in swirling graffiti. I took a deep breath, squeezed side-on out the car and hoofed it to the top of the mound.

The high vantage point allowed me to remain undetected while observing the drop-off area. Seated cross-legged in the dirt, I waited until dusk morphed into night. One dim security light attached to the building sputtered to life, casting a ghostly light over the entrance, exposing any unwanted guests.

Stretched out on my back, I laced my fingers behind my head and tried to spot the space station amongst the few stars when the throb of an engine floated up. Springing upright, my pulse quickened at the lone dark sedan with blackened windows approaching the long crumbling building. The uneven surface played havoc with the car’s soft squeaking suspension. Wheels crunched over piles of broken glass and paper cartons littering the ground. Mini explosions punctuated the still night as tires crushed empty plastic containers. The sedan crawled along without pause from one end of the building to the other in a clear attempt to assess the situation before stopping. At the far end, the driver completed a U-turn in four arduous moves and returned, coming to an abrupt halt. The front end of the car dipped in protest and the engine stopped burbling. Silence descended. The driver’s door catapulted open.

Gripping the top of the door, the driver swung one leg then the other onto the dirt, jerked to the edge of the seat, and using the door as a fulcrum, strained to climb out the car. His polished pale head glistened in the jaundiced light. Now I twigged why the challenging four-point turn. Once he completed the momentous task of exiting, he stood stationary for a second, chest heaving. He kicked his feet forward one at a time to dislodge trousers bunched into his crotch and then hurried to the rear of the car. How predictable—the man wasn’t Betsy’s father; like all bullies, he got others to do his bidding. At this stage, I didn’t care who did the drop.

The well-padded man pointed a key fob at the trunk and the lid sailed up soundlessly. He lugged out a duffel bag. The trunk banged closed, and for reasons known only to him, he thumped the lid once with a clenched fist. He took a moment to look around then strode towards the entrance, the bag bouncing against his leg as he leaned away from the weight. He moved out of sight.

My fingers plunged into my hair and my nails bit into my scalp. Only when the sharp stinging became pronounced did my hands fall to my side. I sucked in a lungful of air and slowly released it in nervous anticipation of the plan actually working, and me not landing in jail doing twenty-five to life for kidnapping.

Thirty seconds later the man re-emerged empty-handed. Again he took a moment to scan his surroundings before squeezing behind the wheel. The car sagged, righted, and drove away. With all the patience I could muster, I waited. Four long laborious hours I waited, and fidgeted, and paced back and forth like a cranky old circus lion. In those long hours, I questioned not only my stupidity but also the damage I might have caused for the network, and the volunteers I had put at risk. Eventually, in the early hours of the morning when all was quiet, I shoved my grim thoughts aside and picked my way down the hill to the building.

Switching on my flashlight, I jerked the beam around the cavernous space, startling a rat foraging in a pile of rags; the critter’s beady eyes flashed red in the glow. He scurried from danger with a few friends in tow. Tucked away in the corner, partially hidden by battered pieces of cardboard, was the duffel bag. My fingers felt as thick as dried out sausages as I fumbled with the zip. Finally, I secured the metallic tab and peeled back the zip, and checked the contents. I gave a low whistle and re-zipped the bag. I struggled to carry the weight back to my car, stumbling and slipping on loose gravel and tufts of dried grass. Huffing and puffing, I dropped the network’s lifeline into the trunk and drove away.

Chapter Two

I hope you’re not too shaken up? I asked Betsy, three days later.

We were toasting our success in the bustling Riverside Restaurant in Cicero.

I was so stiff when my father’s lackey finally pitched. But it’s all for the good, Betsy said.

Please tell me your father didn’t involve the cops. It was vital the crime stayed under the radar.

No, and honestly that truly bothers me. Does he think so little of me? she sniffed.

I covered her hand with mine. Betsy, he didn’t hesitate to pay the money knowing it would ensure your safety.

Betsy nodded and gave a half smile. "I suppose. He kinda asked if I wanted to report the kidnapping while at the same time insinuating it wouldn’t be a good idea. He was hoping I would say