In over Your Head: A Cody J. Bryan Mystery

By Larry J. Hillhouse

Thinking he is rescuing a hitchhiker from the rain on a desolate road, Cody stops to offer assistance. When he starts to question the lady-in-distress she breaks into tears, melting his gallant heart. Learning that she does not have a destination, he invites her to stay at his house, never imagining that she might accept, but she does.

His mystery lady, Kim, doesnt reveal much about herself, and soon disappears within a few days leaving only a handwritten thank you note.

Soon after the FBI arrives and searches his house, and Cody finds himself under house arrest. He soon learns that others are searching for Kim, and all suspect that Cody is heavily involved, and knows more than he admits.

Using his computer skills to search for Kim, Cody places himself squarely in the middle of a vicious struggle between the FBI and several ruthless groups of bad guys. Is Cody in over his head?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 14, 1999
• ISBN: 9781469774251

Larry J. Hillhouse

Larry Hillhouse was born in Tennessee but now lives in Texas. He is a software engineer who writes programs by day and stories by night. He has had several collections of monologues and plays published and a humorous cookbook is coming out soon. Married for over 30 years to Jane, they have one son named Jason. However, the household is really ruled by two Cornish Rex cats, Berle and Milton.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

CODY J. BRYAN, PRIVATE DETECTIVE

Born and raised in Tennessee, Cody Bryan attended a small college in Texas, primarily because it was the only one that offered him a football scholarship. Though a standout player, his slight stature eventually caught up with him, and he continues to be reminded daily of how right the people had been who told him he was too small to play college football.

After college, he worked as a system analyst for twelve years, during which time he married and moved to Arlington, Texas. Then his wife was killed in a car wreck, and his life fell apart. Part of putting his life back together resulted in a career change, and he opened a private detective agency. Although most of his work consisted of surveillance for an occasional suspicious spouse, or tracking down runaway children, he was comfortable in a lower stress environment. His major assets are a strong sense of decency and a more than average understanding of the inner workings of computers.

Chapter One

The Hitchhiker

The temperature had plunged from a balmy 75 degrees down to 40 in the previous four hours, most of which I had spent lost south of Arlington, searching vainly for an obscure ranch where miniature horses were raised. Private detective work, you see, is not all glitter and glory, and Texas weather, especially in springtime, is as unpredictable as a ninety-nine cent umbrella.

The rain had begun falling, as I had known it would, just before I spotted the small figure emerge from the woods. My body was still paying the price for leading the San Angelo Saints in scoring for two years. By the time I realized that the people were right in advising me that I was too small to play college football, my body had been well on its way to becoming a weather barometer. My good knee, which had only been through one major surgery, thoughtfully warned me hours earlier that a storm was rapidly approaching. It was much more dependable in weather forecasting than in the more conventional knee things, such as walking and bending in a normal manner.

Most of the roads I had been traveling were paved, or had been at one time, but time and the Texas weather had combined to play havoc with them. There were so many potholes that rather than try to dodge them, I had been trying to choose the lesser of them to drive through. The tenacious mesquite trees were continuing their life-long efforts to reclaim any open space, so there were sporadic tree limbs leaning out over the roadway. Additionally, there were occasional couches, mattresses, chairs, and other discards that people had chosen to dump along the roadway. That left navigating those roads much like driving a giant slalom, weaving in and out to miss the various obstacles.

Therefore, as I spotted the Arlington city limits sign, I expected to have better driving conditions. That was about the time that the mist turned to rain, and I had grudgingly clicked the windshield wipers from intermittent to constant, when a sudden movement at the side of the road caught my attention. Thinking it was a child waving me down, I pulled over, and it was only when the person climbed quickly into my car that I saw it was a young Asian woman. She had a concerned look on her face as she dutifully buckled her seat belt, tightly clutching a dark green backpack to her chest. At least she was safety conscious.

Are you wet? I asked, that being the first thing I could think of to say.

Not much, she replied, smiling with her mouth, but not her eyes.

I have a staunch rule against picking up hitchhikers, so was mentally kicking myself for stopping for her. Her size had fooled me into thinking it was a child in trouble. She probably wasn’t five foot tall, and slender, and carrying a backpack, and I’d assumed too much.

Since my major occupation is supposed to be a detective, I had carelessly violated most of the basic rules of my profession in a matter of seconds. Of course, in my case, the detecting consisted primarily of following spouses of suspicious mates, or searching for runaway children. Hey, perhaps I thought she was a runaway kid?

Seeing that she was in fact a little damp and lot cold, I turned the heater up a notch, wondering what to say next. She pushed the hood of her dark blue jacket back, spilling out her long black hair, and seemed content to ride silently. Stealing glances at her, I couldn’t help but observe that she was actually quite a cute little package. That’s official detective lingo, not to be confused with sexist or chauvinistic thinking. She was wearing jeans and a dark red shirt beneath the light windbreaker.

Did your books get wet? I asked, nodding at her backpack. Of course I didn’t know if there were books in there, but, acting like a detective should, was shrewdly trying to lead her into revealing a little information about herself. Like, what was she doing out in the middle of nowhere at night? Like, where did she think we were going? Like, why did she keep glancing in the rearview mirror on her side of the car?

No, she answered, easily side-stepping my clever attempt at prying.

Where to, then? I asked, deciding that I would just drop her off somewhere and forget this matter entirely. Chalk it up to a momentary lapse in common sense, and get on with my life.

There was a long pause, and I thought perhaps she had not understood me. I glanced over at her to ask the question again, and could see that she was staring straight ahead, sobbing quietly.

I’ve never been able to stand seeing a woman cry. Especially a pretty one. Especially a mysterious one. Especially one that seemed so small and defenseless that it brought out the macho in me. That flaw in my character has gotten me into trouble more times than not. Unfortunately, I have never been good at learning from past mistakes, and seem destined to continue making the same ones over and over.

There was a fast-food restaurant handy, so I swung into the drive-thru, ordered a couple burgers and sodas, then pulled around to the side and parked. I sensed that she would prefer not to go inside to a lighted area. She still hadn’t spoken, but eagerly took the food, and we ate in silence. Both of us carefully watched the sparse traffic go past, but one of us had no clue as to why. A thousand thoughts ran through my head, wondering if I was sitting next to a psychotic mass murderer, an escaped convict, or a girl who had just gotten into a spat with a boyfriend. Glancing at her as she ate, I saw an expression of someone who was either scared, bewildered, hurt, or all of the above.

Finally I decided that I had to do something, even if it was wrong, so I put my hand on her shoulder in what I hoped was a kind and gentle, non-threatening fashion.

What’s wrong? was about the smartest thing I could come up with to say, as I was beginning to wish that I was anywhere else.

She reached up and clutched my hand in her tiny hands, and I was instantly glad that I was right there in that exact spot. Logical thoughts went flying right out the car door into the drizzly night, as I was there to defend this nice woman against any aggressor, against any odds, against my better judgment. My brain had turned to mush, with any rational thinking patterns totally beyond my reach. This had been happening to me ever since Betty Jane Keener had batted her baby blue eyes at me in the sixth grade as she handed me a love note. She never did return my round pencil with the new eraser.

I don’t know what to do, she said softly, turning her beautiful brown weapon eyes up to look at me.

I, of course, became an instant puddle of butter, and characteristically could come up with nothing intelligent to say. All I could think was to hope that my facial expression showed intense sympathy, that there was something that I, myself, might be able to do, and to think how warm her hands were as they continued to grip mine.

Everything is gone, she added, in a tone that expected me to fully comprehend her meaning.

Oh, no! I exclaimed, feeling absolutely foolish, as I had no earthly idea what was gone, and whether the fact that it was gone was fabulous or devastating.

It’s not your problem, she said, turning her face away, but not before I saw the tears welling up again.

Well, it is now, I declared, giving her hands what I hoped was a reassuring squeeze. What can I do to help you?

In a much longer time than it takes to relate, she informed me that there had been a fire, that she had lost everything except what was in the backpack, that she only needed four more hours of coursework on her doctorate in history, that she was afraid that she might be deported to Vietnam before she could finish school, that there was no one to help her, that she had no place to stay, and had no idea what to do.

I suppose you could spend the night at my house, I felt obligated to offer, some type of inherited Southern hospitality responsibility, reasonably sure that she would refuse.

You’re so kind, she said, batting those eyes at me again, If you’re sure it would not cause bother?

Nonsense, I replied, hiding my panic, I have plenty of space, and besides, it would be doing my small part for foreign relations. Instantly, I realized what a dumb comment that was to make, and could feel my face flush.

Then, okay, she said, seeming to relax.

What am I doing? I asked myself, wondering what the neighbors would think if they saw her coming home with me.

Wondering, my foot! I exclaimed to myself, I know what they’d think!

We made the short trip to my neighborhood in silence. She seemed relieved that her immediate decision had been made, and my mind was trying to race, desperately hoping to understand what sort of mess I was getting myself into, and wondering whether this was the start of another major fiasco in my life. Due to the weather, none of my neighbors were out in their front yards, which was some consolation to me.

I pulled into my driveway, thanked my lucky stars for the guy who invented the remote garage door opener, and eased into the garage, hopefully without any of my neighbors peeking through their windows and seeing us. The garage door slowly rattled to a close behind us. As I fumbled to unlock the door going into the house, something occurred to me.

Hey, I don’t even know your name, I said, adding, My name is Cody.

Hello, Cody, she smiled at me, offering her hand. My name is Kim.

I held her hand and led her into the house, through the mess in the utility room that I had planned on cleaning up for the last three months, through the kitchen, and into the den. I offered to take her backpack, but she sat it down on the floor beside her. I was still holding her hand, and wondered if it would be okay to hold it forever. Buying a little more time, I led her into the hallway.

Please excuse the mess, but I wasn’t anticipating company. There’s the bathroom on the left, towels on the shelf, and your bedroom is right there across the hall. There’s food, of sorts, in the kitchen, so just make yourself at home.

She turned loose of my hand, went back to the den and got her backpack, then returned to where I was still standing in the hall.

You’ve been so kind, she said, very seriously, I hope I’m not being too much trouble.

I’m glad you’re here, I told her, trying to sound more platonic than I felt. "And things don’t just happen randomly. This was meant to happen. We were meant to meet. I was supposed to be on