Best Enemies: Murder, Obsession, and Survival
In
The Rugged Backwoods of
New York State

By Anthony D'Augustine

"The true measure of a man lies in his ability to remain independent and in his capacity to command respect. Plain and simple. That's an epitaph I'd favor." Such is the philosophy of one-time Newark Detective Sergeant Mac Taylor. After retiring under questionable circumstances, Mac searches to find his daughter and to square up with two of his BEST ENEMIES. The search takes him to a recreational park in the Catskill Mountains known as Mongaup Pond. When a murder and kidnapping occur at the upstate New York campground, Mac takes it personally. With the help of two weekend campers (Jason Strunella and his sister, Cheryl Groden), Mac sets out to deliver a special brand of street justice upon the offenders. Meanwhile, Police Lieutenant Evan Falco-working within the constraints of the law-races to find the determined avengers and to unravel a greater mystery; one that leads to a startling conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 20, 2003
• ISBN: 9781469736044

Anthony D'Augustine

Anthony D’Augustine is a former detective lieutenant and firearms training supervisor with the Bergen County Prosecutor’s Office in New Jersey. He and his wife, Patricia, have four children and one grandson. Anthony is currently working on his second novel, JUST VENGEANCE, which chronicles the continued exploits of Mac Taylor.

Book preview

Prologue:

The Scavenger

Chapter One

Great minds have purposes, others have wishes.

—Washington Irving

Shiny, cracked, and blistery, right out of an oil bath, on a soft bun, smothered in spicy mustard and red onions; now, that’s a hotdog—at least by Mac Taylor’s standards. And salted fries dripping in brown gravy. You know, the kind that go a little limp between your fingers but slide down smoothly, leaving a magnificent aftertaste that can hold your appetite in check for hours. Let’s not forget, of course, a long-necked beer to wash it all down. Hell, Mac knew the five-minute feast wouldn’t win any awards from the health police, but after eight hours of shaking down leads and a stomach screaming for a meal, he was ready for Chubby’s Greased Pig Special—bulbous frank, greasy fries and all.

Here you go, the proprietor said as he dropped the two plates next to Mac’s beer.

Chub, you are the man.

Yeah, yeah. I know. I’m the only dog and pony show left in this area. But not for long, Mac, not for long.

Ah, come on. You love it here.

Tell you what, my detective buddy; get rid of those apartments across the street and maybe I’ll stay around a little longer. … Otherwise, I’ll be out of here, this time next year.

Mac chomped down on a third of the hotdog and cranked his head to the right. Glancing out the barroom window, he focused on two men standing by the front stairwell of the apartment building across the street. Chub, you ever see those two before?

The plump fellow behind the counter looked out the window at the two men across the street. Nope. They must be new. You know the scum that floats in and out of that place. Tomorrow there’ll be two different mutts by that door. One thing, though, will never change. Whoever they are, they’ll be just one more problem for me and my business.

Let’s not be bitter, Mac said, smiling at the tavern owner.

Chubby threw up his arms. Then, working his way to an empty glass by the beer taps, he muttered—to no one in particular, Who’s bitter? Not me. Why would I be bitter?

Mac just heaved a sigh. He then gulped down the second third of his main course and dug into his fries. It hadn’t taken him much longer to finish the meal and suck down the twelve-ounce bottle of suds.

Another? asked Chubby as the bottle rang hollow on the wood bar.

Not now, said Mac. He peeled off a ten-dollar bill and threw it on the bar. Thanks, anyway. … Oh, by the way; the food was great, the beer was cold, and your words were—as usual—inspirational. Just one thing, though, Chub; you’ve got to learn to mellow out, get along with your neighbors. Mac then turned and made his way to the door.

"You better make a break for it, Sergeant Gumshoe, Chubby yelled back, before I come ’round this bar and kick you’ ass."

Mac cracked a smile. Without saying a word, he made his way out the front door and into the warm light of the late afternoon sun. Numb to the gritty north side neighborhood that surrounded him, he cut across the street, dodging two cars in the process. He marched past the narrow alleyway … the blood-stained Dumpster … the iron fence to his immediate left—all sights that triggered graphic memories of old assignments—and on to the front of the five-story apartment complex.

Looking up at the building, he shook his head, as he had done many times before; each time, a dimpled grin plastered on his face. The words POMPEII GARDENS were etched in concrete above the doorway. He thought WELCOME TO THE GATES OF HELL would be the more appropriate inscription.

The Gardens, as it was called by the locals, was a rundown tenement that housed every type of street urchin (known familiarly—no surprise here—as Gardeners); from dopers, hookers, and pedophiles to ex-cons and scam artists. Until recently, the Gardens had also been the home of a psychotic named Arnold Horner, a slice-and-dice killer with a penchant for runaway kids.

The current crop of inhabitants, however, were a far cry from the singers, songwriters, and musicians who lived there back in the day, back during The Swing Era. Some of the old-timers on the block remember The Gardens with a smile, when it was alive with music, and bustling with celebrities and upstarts in all the creative arts.

Brrrrp. It was the hotdog talking. Mac scratched his stomach and puffed out his cheeks. With the glow of alcohol suddenly connecting with his brain, the left-handed detective guardedly brushed the side of his sport coat, searching for the hard grip of his 9mm handgun. He then reached behind his back and touched the metal clip that held his backup weapon—a 40-caliber Glock automatic.

Now, though, as Mac checked out the front of the building and the surrounding neighborhood, there was no dimpled grin on his face. His thoughts were not about the history of The Gardens (its singers or songwriters) or about how and why the neighborhood fell into disrepute. Why it lost its pulse … its energy.

With a marriage turning cold and a caseload hemorrhaging from inattention, he wasn’t in any mood to deal with Gardeners. The beer didn’t help matters. Nonetheless, it had been a long work day and he was itching to put an exclamation point on the end of it before going home.

Mac’s attention now settled back to the front of the building; specifically, to the two barrel-chested men slowly descending the stairway. When they reached the bottom, the two stopped, squared their shoulders, and closed ranks, effectively creating a wall of flesh … and no room for him to pass.

Stone-faced, the taller of the two folded his arms and said, Can we help you?

Mac’s eyebrows quickly lowered.

It was not the question that bothered him, nor the tone of the man’s voice. That was just part of the street scene. Take control. Dominate or be dominated. Talk tough, act tough, if you want to survive.

No, it was not the question that bothered him. It was the man’s loose-fitting attire; the light cotton Jamaican shirt, in particular, that hung freely about his waist. Each time the husky individual had taken a step down the stairway, the island shirt would pinch, crimp and buckle, revealing a bulge on the right side of his midsection—a bulge that expanded an already massive waistline.

Mac’s antennae had been activated the instant the two men had taken their first step. Training and instinct told him never to trust anyone in the neighborhood wearing loose-fitting clothes. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the candidate was either wearing a set of burglary or robbery clothes underneath, or he was carrying a weapon, drugs or some other form of contraband. Any other time, Mac would have patted down both these guys, charged them with possessing and concealing handguns—never doubting for a minute that they were dirty—and he would have spent the rest of the afternoon processing the arrests. That was then, though. This time things were different. He couldn’t care less about making a couple of collars and going through the charade of legal challenges. This time he was searching for an answer to a single question (a personal one) and hoping to … maybe … just maybe … get a chance to settle an old score.

Staring back at the Muscle, Mac scratched the back of his head and pointed up the stairway. Mind moving over? I’d like to see somebody up there.

Now who might that be? And what’s your business here? the taller man asked.

It’s really got nothing to do with you or your buddy, so kindly move outta the way.

The individual leaned forward. You ain’t goin’ nowhere without some answers. Else, I guess, you’ll be lookin’ for a serious beatin’.

The fries, onions, and beer started to percolate in Mac’s belly. Listen, I’m sure you’re a nice guy. Right now, though, you just happen to be standing in a bad spot. So, he said, "I will ask you politely, one more time, please, get the hell outta my way."

The tall guy glanced at his partner and smiled. Looks like a beatin’ is in order here. Wouldn’t you agree, bro? He then reached out and grabbed Mac by the lapel of his coat.

Before the second man had a chance to nod approval, Mac locked onto the attacker’s wrist with his right hand and drove his left hand into the man’s right elbow. Twisting the big man’s hand back upon his own wrist, Mac dropped him quickly to his knees. As the counterattack was playing out, the shorter of the two men struggled to free the gun that was tucked under a sleeveless sweatshirt near the small of his back. With surprising speed—for a man with twenty-plus years on the force—Mac released the elbow grip and with his left hand drew his service weapon.

Aiming the automatic directly at the head of the second man, he said, "We could have done this a lot easier. Wouldn’t you agree, bro? Now, hand over your weapons, nice and slow."

The second man moved his eyes from the barrel of Mac’s gun, down to the empty weathered, leather holster and the gold Newark detective’s badge hooked to his belt.

Take it easy, five-oh. We don’t have a beef with you. Ain’t nothin’ goin’ on here that’s your problem.

Mac retrained his gun on the head of the man on his knees. Right now you’re my problem. Now, the weapons, let’s go.

Both men placed their handguns on the concrete walkway. Mac told them to back up as he bent down, picked up the weapons, and tucked them inside his belt. I’ll catch up with your mutts later, he growled. For now, do yourselves a big favor. Disappear for the next hour or so. But don’t think about leaving town. Believe me, I’ll find you, and when I do, you’ll regret ever trying to run out on possession and resisting charges. Enough said. Now, get the hell outta the way!

The men then slowly opened a pathway for Mac to cross.

***

Chapter Two

The haft of the arrow had been feathered with one of the eagle’s own plumes. We often give our enemiesthe means of our own destruction.

—Aesop

Cautiously, Mac sidled up the partially broken set of steps—never taking his eyes off the two hapless individuals. Grabbing the metal handle on the glass door of the tenement building, he turned forward, then stepped inside.

It was your typical inner-city, crack-house foyer. Stained tiled flooring, dented metal mailboxes, and cinder-block walls covered with names and numbers. The strong smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol hung in the air like glue in the cramped foyer. Though overpowering, the smell could not fully mask the lesser stench of body odor and urine.

Oblivious to the sight and smell of the room, the Newark detective forcibly pushed each button on the nameplate board and waited. He banked on the odds that someone in the building would buzz him in. Someone always did.

Several seconds later a buzzer went off. He quickly pulled open the door. With gun still in hand—now hanging at his side—Mac first looked down the hallway, then up the old wooden stairs to his right. Both locations were empty … and quiet.

Arrrrheeee suddenly reverberated throughout the first floor. His right hand dropped down and tugged at his belt. This time it was the onions talking.

Mac quickly took to the stairs. Worried that either his grumbling stomach or the moaning staircase would attract attention that might lead to another episode like the one that just occurred outside, Mac worked his way to the fifth floor, two and three steps at a time.

Upon reaching the top landing, he inched his way along the graffiti-coated wall. With his handgun clasped firmly in both hands, he scanned the length of the hallway. Like all the other floors, it was empty and eerily silence.

One … two … edging his way down the hall, Mac stepped out from the wall in front of the third door. The heavy, wooden barrier belonged to Apartment 5C. He stood for a moment and wondered—not so much about who he’d find inside or about the imminent risk to his life, his career; but of a more immediate problem—about the strength of the lockset embedded in the door. Is it doable?

Before launching his shoulder into the rigid barrier, he decided to first jiggle the doorknob; to see if, by chance, it was unlocked. To his surprise, it was.

Mac sensed something was not quite right. Nonetheless, in spite of the empty hallways and unlocked door, he knew there was no turning back at this point.

The door flew open. Unannounced, he burst into the apartment.

What the f— was all the half-dressed, frizzy-haired blonde could get out before he put his free hand on her face and pushed her back onto the sofa by the front door.

Sorry, but you startled me, Mac said calmly. He looked away from her on into the smoky apartment. Where’s our friend Parnel?

You can’t—, she uttered. But before the disoriented woman was able to finish yet another sentence, a muscular man stepped out from behind the archway that led to the back bedrooms. He held up his right hand and looked her squarely in the eyes. Catching his stare, the woman stopped in mid-sentence.

He turned his face toward the detective. I’m right here, old friend.

Mac turned, then casually crossed the living room floor. Hey, Mike. Business must be good, he said. You look terrific. I like that swollen look. Spend a lot of time at the gym?

No, just gifted I guess; born with a killer body.

Well, here’s another gift … killer boy, Mac snarled as he pinned the man to the archway door with a strong right forearm thrust. One last chance. That’s what I’m going to give you.

The man was unshaken. Last chance for what … old friend?

"Well, first off, don’t ‘old friend’ me. We never were friends and we never, ever will be. Mac then placed the barrel of his 9mm under the man’s chin. Secondly, I’m here for one reason only: to give you one last chance to square up with me."

On what?

Come on, Mike. Don’t act stupid. You know, what. Where is she?

Mike looked him straight in the eyes. Who?

Do you want me to tear this dump apart? I will … including you, Mac fired back. Don’t play games with me. Where is she, Mike?

The man stared back defiantly at him. Beats me, chump. I don’t know where she is. His eyes then slowly glanced down at the gold badge clipped to Mac’s belt. Wearing a murderous grin, he added, I mean, old friend.

Bust my chops one more time and you’ll be eating your next meal through a straw. No more stories. Now … where the hell is she?

Listen, my man, Mike snickered. I told you I ain’t got a clue.

None? said Mac as he slid his right hand across the man’s throat and grabbed tightly onto the collar of his shirt.

A look of hatred suddenly crossed Mike’s face. With sarcasm falling like ice on his every word, he said, Whoa, wait a minute. Do you think it’s possible that your daughter might have disappeared with Camin? … Maybe.… Nah, I don’t think so.

He punctuated his comment with an outburst of laughter.

In that instant, Mac’s eyes locked onto the cold stare of the man held solidly in his grip. He summoned all his strength to stop from pulling the trigger on his 9mm. Still, in spite of all his efforts, he could not control the weapon from digging deeper into Mike’s neck. With the barrel of Mac’s gun riveted to the man’s windpipe, the scent of imminent death seeped into the room … and the laughter abruptly stopped.

Now you listen, dirtbag. I don’t have time for this crap, Mac said. "I don’t know how many girls you’re putting up in this place, but I’m sure there’s some junk around here, somewhere. You know, and I know, they can’t keep their hands off the shit … and I know you’d use any one of them to take a hit for your stash … while you hang out in your cross-town apartment. So, my man … my old friend … since you don’t want to be helpful, let’s see what I might find around here."

With some reluctance, Mac slipped his gun back into its holster. He then began ransacking the apartment. After approximately five minutes of turning over furniture, stripping closets, and emptying drawers, he turned his attention back to Mike.

I’ll find her … and she’d better not be with LaForge. He then moved to within a breath’s distance of Mike. Do you understand me?

Mac hadn’t expected a verbal answer, just silent acknowledgment.

The question did not hang long in the air before he grabbed Mike again about the neck. Like the cocked hammer on a gun, he drew back his arm and prepared to introduce his large, unyielding fist to the bridge of Mike’s nose. Before he could release the coiled weapon, a voice rang out by the front door of the apartment.

Don’t do it, Taylor!

Mac stopped, his arm suspended in space, ready to strike. He turned his head toward the door.

I think you might be in enough trouble already. The voice belonged to Lieutenant Wallace Burkner of the Newark Police Department, Internal Affairs Division. Standing next to him were two uniformed police officers. Right now your job is in jeopardy. Hit him and you can kiss it good-bye.

Mac paused for a moment to consider the alternatives. Then, with biting eyes, he looked back at Mike. "This ain’t over, pal. Remember, anything happens to my daughter, I’ll track you down … you and your buddy … and I will take both of you apart, piece-by-piece. Get the point, old friend?"

Mike simply looked at him and smiled. But before he could wipe the grin from his face, a powerful punch from Mac’s left hand dropped him straight to the floor. The last Mike heard were feet rushing in from the front door … and what he thought sounded strangely like the rumblings of a stomach in turmoil.

***

Part One:

The Prey

Chapter Three

The strongest of all warriors are these two—Time and Patience.

—Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoi

… 4 Years Later

Atop the breakpoint of a fallen maple, amongst the feathery tips of swamp horsetails and tall meadow reeds, sat the proud Northern Harrier. Perched slightly above the rippling grass, the marsh hawk lifted a long leg and scratched the ruff of feathers surrounding its sharp beak. Then, peering through the bearded jackstraws, it scanned the edges of the adjoining habitats, looking intently for any sign of movement.

Suddenly, something caught its eye. Looking northwest, the hawk saw a field mouse scamper back and forth near the edge of the water. Because of its stealth and cunning, the tiny rodent had till that moment eluded the watchful gaze of the daytime killer.

Now, however, it was exposed and vulnerable.

The Harrier remained still.

The mouse moved closer to the waterline and began to feast on some driftwood.

Somewhere within the hawk, a voice, unrecognizable by human standards, cried, Now. Taking wing, the predator flew low, scraping the soft tops of the yellow stalks. In an instant, it dropped from the protective reeds.

The mouse darted into a crevice under a large rock. As the hawk fought to overturn the rock, the small rodent scurried uninjured, into the surrounding reeds.

Unruffled, the hawk stared directly at the spot where the prey disappeared. The owl-faced bird then listened intently for the slightest of noise. It stood motionless, feeling the breeze and the brush, the sun’s warmth, and the moist caress of the fine mist that drifted off the surface of the creek. When neither sound nor movement materialized, the wordless voice cried out again, Go. With that, the stout-winged creature flew to a perch high on the west bank. There, as the fish jumped and the Meadowlark sang in the early evening light, the Northern Harrier quietly stretched its wings … and waited.

Jason Strunella sat at the edge of the pond listening to the water lapping at his feet. Cautiously, he took a sip of black coffee from his metal field cup and leaned back slowly against a white pine. With feet outstretched, he scanned the hardwood forest, then watched as the rolling peaks to the west circled on axis and slipped in front of the sun. He was amazed at how quickly ghostly shadows began to fall upon the giant timbers; how the horizon changed in a matter of moments from bright blue and slate gray to orange, red, and gold; then, to a deepening black.

While a crisp air descended upon the hollow, Jason clutched his warm field cup. Raising it to his lips, he took a slow drag of the hot liquid. He then yanked the collar of his flannel shirt higher around his neck and glanced at his watch.

Where the hell could they be? he wondered aloud.

Jason was to meet his brother and sister by the pond at noon. They hadn’t arrived yet and that bothered him. Until this moment, he was only angry at them for being late. But now, with darkness covering the valley, he was becoming seriously worried. He knew the trip from Freeport, Long Island to Mongaup Pond wouldn’t take more than three hours, even with traffic. Calculating a worse-case scenario, he still had his brother and sister arriving before sundown. He always trusted his older sister, Cheryl, to be on time, but Ryan was another story. His younger brother had never been known for his punctuality—but even at that, eight hours and no Ryan was still a bit much.

Suddenly, numerous pops and sizzles to his rear shifted his attention. Drawn now to the crackling fire behind him, Jason stood up and rolled down the sleeves of his flannel shirt. Then, as the night air bit into his bones, he made his way to the campfire.

On his way, Jason grabbed a handful of kindling wood. With one of the sticks, he stoked the smoldering fire until the embers took on a cherry red glow. He then placed the kindling in a pile above the brightest embers and added some small logs. Holding his hands out for warmth, he sat back and watched the fire grow. Flames soon leaped high into the early night sky.

Shackled to the base post of the cellar staircase, the victim bowed her head and moaned while the drugs took their effect. As she laid on the dark basement floor, the young woman was filled with a sense of hopelessness and despair. Slurring her words, she cried out to the three men who stood over her, Please talk to ’im … Dun’ let ’im hurt me … Please … I’m beggin’ you … I juswanna go home.

Ignoring her pleas, one of the men wrapped duct tape around her head, covering her mouth with each pass of the fibrous material. Loaded as she was with barbiturates that had earlier been forced down her throat, she couldn’t put up much resistance.

Then, while she began to drift off, one of the men jacked her up by the ankles. As he lifted her halfway off the cold floor, the gray colored shift she had been wearing slid down her legs and gathered about her waist. A second man hurriedly stepped over her legs and faced the one who was holding her by the ankles. He reached down and ran his hands slowly along her calves. Slipping them passed the back of her knees, he continued to roll his hands along her legs. When he got to the top of her thighs, his pulse began to race. The assailant then slid his hands down slowly across the warm, tender flesh of her inner thighs.

Immediately, her head began shaking violently from side to side and, with what little strength she had left in her body, she tried to twist out of her restraints. Each call for help was muted by the tightly spun duct tape around her mouth.

With a cruel smile, the second man stared down at her. Don’t worry, honey. In a couple of hours none of this will matter.

He then ran his hands along her crotch and grabbed the front of her panties. Attempting to pull them over her rounded hips, the delicate undergarment caught on her upper thighs. The molester gave one quick tug and her underwear was ripped like tissue paper from her body.

As the third man began to unbuckle his belt in anticipation, a long, shadowy figure suddenly appeared at the top of the stairway.

Let’s go! he said. Say ‘goodbye’ and get her bagged up and in the van. We don’t have any time to waste!

The three men stood for a moment, looking at each other. Without saying a word, knowing full well the penalty for disobedience, they quickly abandoned their prurient goal. Then, hastily, they unshackled her from the post and slid a large burlap bag over her body.

Mac Taylor crouched down behind the berry bush and trained his binoculars on the north side of the two-story house. He had been sitting several hundred feet across the road and to the east of the dwelling. He felt comforted by the nine-inch knife he had in his rear pocket and the long pipe by his side.

It was getting dark. A rear porch light silhouetted the area. His focus settled on several people mulling about the premises. Though there was a lot of chatter, he couldn’t understand what they were saying. Then, as quickly as he had locked in on them, they disappeared around the northwest corner of the house. Mac had suspected they were entering and leaving the place through the back door; one which had been blocked from his view. He determined he hadn’t the time to get to his truck, which was parked on a dirt road about a quarter of a mile to his back, and to relocate to a position west of the house for a clear view of the rear entrance.