Dead Ringer 3 and Windfall

By F. EUGENE BARBER

This is a Dual Novel: Dead Ringer 3 is a continuation of Dead Ringer 2 but with some new characters added. They are actively engaged in the War Against Drugs in Central America. One of the "new hires" is under Witness Protection and decides that Central America would be a better place to hide than where she has been for the last year in the States. She is teamed with a young man from California who was wounded in Iraq and put "out to pasture." They work together in the Jungles of Colombia and Nicaragua--and fall in love.

The second novel WINDFALL is centered about a young man who was wounded in the Iraqi war and returns to his home town and works as a PI. He is working the other end of the War on Drugs in the central valley of California. He meets a girl during one of his investigations and they find something in common--this leads to love. They eventually work on the same team and there is an odd turn of events at the end that links the Dual Novels together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 19, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452091303

F. EUGENE BARBER

F. Eugene Barber grew up in the Midwest and worked on farms and ranches until at age seventeen, and just out of high school, he enlisted into the Air Force. He served during the Korean War, was at Pusan Air Field for a short time, and was transferred to the B-29 Bomber as an engine mechanic and then to the atom bomb carrying B-36 Bomber as a Crew Chief, and then Flight Line Chief, attached to the 5th Field Maintenance Squadron, 5th Reconnaissance Wing—Heavy, 14th Air Division, 15th Air Force, Strategic Air Command (SAC), Travis AFB, California. Using the GI Bill after discharge, former Staff Sergeant Barber earned an AS in Engineering, a BA, and an MBA. He has worked in the defense, aerospace, and intelligence communities all of his working life, and for the last twenty years or so he has consulted on FAA related aircraft, DoD projects, satellite covert INTEL projects, and other agency projects. He fi nished a three year assignment at the Birk Flight Test Center, Edwards AFB, CA on the Airborne Laser Project; 208 another year with a large defense fi rm near Minneapolis working on a computer controlled remotely fi red Navy gun program; a year-long task at a remote site ninety miles out in the Nevada desert where he was assigned to the special projects offi ce for UAV DoD ops; and he just fi nished another six month consulting task in Washington on a new composite jet aircraft. Mr. Barber has worked all over the world; North, South, and Central America, Europe, the UK, Finland, Turkey, Saudi Arabia, Russia, Russian Siberia, Republic of South Africa, French Polynesia, mainland China, Republic of Korea, Japan, and Australia. He and his wife, Yvonne lived for a time in Yorkshire, UK where he was a status of forces contractor/consultant on a clandestine joint ops base—they have resided in Nevada for twenty-two years. www.readerskorner.com

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Dead Ringer 3

F. Eugene Barber

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AuthorHouse™

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© 2010. F. Eugene Barber. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 11/16/2010

ISBN: 978-1-4520-9130-3 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-6954-8 (sc)

Printed in the United States of America

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

DEDICATION

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Novels by F. Eugene Barber

DEDICATION

This novel is dedicated to the memory of our longtime friend, William Kennedy Shearer of San Diego. Bill was an ethical man and would have approved of this novel’s ethics and principles.

On March 3, 2007, ‘California Statesman’ publisher William Kennedy Shearer left this world to claim his eternal reward in Heaven. Bill was born in Marysville, California on January 21, 1931, to William and Eva Kennedy Shearer. He was a third generation Californian. His father died as the result of an auto accident in 1938. After his father’s death Bill, together with his mother and sister, made their way to San Diego, where his mother was hired as a 6th grade school teacher.

Bill graduated from Grossmont High School in La Mesa, California; served in the Army during the Korean War; earned his B.A. degree at Cal-State U. San Diego, graduating in 1955; and received his law degree from Western State University of Law San Diego in 1975.

In 1955, Bill met Eileen Mary Knowland. In 1956, they married. They had one daughter, Nancy. Bill and Eileen worked side by side until God called her Home in December of 2003. In the early 1960s, Bill and Eileen took over "The Oceanside Banner" a local San Diego County newspaper, which launched Bill’s career as a journalist. In 1962, Bill began publishing "The California Statesman" a job that gave him much pleasure; continuing to publish it for the rest of his life.

For 32 years Bill practiced as an attorney and as a partner in a successful law firm. He worked with many American Indian Tribes; one Indian case, Short vs. United States-1976, continued on until his death. Bill represented over a hundred Indian plaintiffs, who eventually won $86 million dollars from the US government and like Bill, most died before winning the case.

Bill loved music. Growing up on the border, he was especially fond of mariachi music, which could be heard emanating from the Shearer home seven days a week. Bill also took great interest in Gilbert & Sullivan operas, which he could recite word for word.

An ancient near eastern history buff, Bill was writing a chronology of the kings of Egypt at the time of his death. His library on ancient near eastern history exceeded that of most libraries in the US.

Bill was involved in politics for many years and was a founder of the American Independent Party—still active. Bill was only a few months older than me and we shared the same American traditions, politics, and values. My wife, Yvonne and I miss Bill—his quick wit, his big booming voice, and his sincere friendship.

F. Eugene Barber

CHAPTER ONE

The doorbell sounded musically, playing ‘Garry Owen’ through a hidden speaker over the double, eight foot tall oaken doors. It lightly played fourteen notes, just enough to feel the romanticized movie notions of ‘Custer’s Last Stand.’ The house was an old hundred year plus house; a turn-of-the-last-century home with high ceilings.

Every time Harmon Gregory heard it play, for some reason he thought of John Wayne and his many Hollywood roles as a cavalry officer—several of those old movies had ‘Garry Owen’ playing in the background or as a theme throughout the movie.

Harmon looked through the front door peephole and carefully lifted the latch and turned the knob for the deadbolt. He glanced quickly outside; there was a small compact car in the circular driveway parked crookedly and away from the curb about two feet.

A young man in a plain, dark blue work uniform was standing to one side of the porch, gently balancing a flat box. He had a blurred name patch on his shirt’s left pocket—the shirt had been washed one time too many—the name was unreadable. If the box had not been made of plain brown pasteboard, it might have been a medium sized pizza.

Yes young man! Do you have something for me?

Yea Sirra! I got this here box an somebudy has to sign fer it, he handed Harmon a clipboard. The young man had an odd accent.

It’s got yer wife’s name on it. Err…I reckon it’s yer wife.

The young man kept balancing the pizza waiting. It wobbled. He steadied it with his other hand underneath the edge. At the top of the clipboard was a decal:

ACE DELIVERY SERVICE

Linthicum, MD

PHN 1-818 555-3627

Harmon thought it might be something for his birthday this coming Thursday. He signed it hurriedly.

The delivery man gripped the clipboard under his left arm and thrust the thin box towards Harmon. As he passed it, the young man fussed with the bottom of the box and almost dropped it. The cardboard was flimsy.

The young man said, Thank you! He half-turned to go down the steps.

Harmon nodded and spoke to him politely in a soft low voice, You are welcome. Harmon closed the heavy door carefully and carried the flat box towards his study.

I’ll wait until Marsha gets back, she may not want me to open it just yet. It could be a surprise for my birthday.

The little car roared out of the circular driveway and Harmon heard the young man miss second gear as he turned the corner up the road.

The kitchen phone beeped. He thought to himself, It doesn’t really beep, it chirps. He laughed under his breath.

Harmon bent forward and quickly placed the floppy flat box on the floor near the arched library doorway and on the second step.

He swiftly moved away and stepped down into the expensively tiled sunken kitchen floor to answer the phone on the far wall. The telephone was hanging on the wall by the pantry door next to the refrigerator.

The deep stainless steel-faced refrigerator was not really meant for that corner and it stuck out past the wall phone by almost eleven inches. He backed partially around the refrigerator’s protruding edge.

Harmon hadn’t slept well last night; he leaned against the wall while steadying himself and grabbed the phone, Hello! This is Har….

There was a loud boom! Shattered glass and yellowish smoke! And then a fire broke out! The smoke alarms went off—and a light blinked on the fallen telephone handset. It had disconnected the caller and was calling the Feldspar Alarm Company automatically.

Harmon was on the floor in an instant. His eyes blinked, he shook his head, and raised himself up on one knee. Why am I on the floor?

He was disoriented for just a moment. Then he saw small flames shooting upwards near the entrance to the library. He grabbed the edge of the countertop, pulled himself up erect, grabbed the kitchen waste can, dumped the trash on the floor, and hurriedly half-filled it with water using the pre-wash hose coming out of the back of the sink top.

Blood was running down his bare left arm—the sleeve was torn off halfway up, almost at his elbow, and pieces of the blue denim shirt dangled past his wrist. The protruding refrigerator had protected the rest of his body.

Harmon soon had the flames out. There was glass everywhere and the old ‘English Country’ cabinet in the hall had lost all of the glass in its front doors and sides and some of the glass shards were driven into his beautiful French desk—it was a Napoleon from the early 1800’s. There was an acrid smoke smell in the air. Harmon thought it was gun powder.

The smoke alarm was still going off, a shrill warbling shriek. His ears were ringing. There was a large ragged hole in the hardwood floor and the sub floor. Harmon could see the concrete foundation pillars below. This part of the old farmhouse had no basement, only the rear rooms had a basement below them.

Suddenly sirens! A large vehicle screeched to a stop, and there was a rapid frantic pounding on the front door.

Harmon moved quickly, it made him dizzy. He eased open the door hesitantly. It made a grinding noise, crunching the glass shards on the floor—two firefighters and a policeman entered. There was glass and debris on the entryway floor and glass was scattered all along the hallway to the sunken kitchen steps. The floor and steps were layered with small pieces of broken glass. Harmon steadied himself by hanging onto the door.

He said aloud, mostly to nobody in particular, I must have been on the floor longer than I thought.

He shook his head once more. Things were weird. Everything seemed to be in slow motion. The vision in his left eye was blurred. He reached up to his forehead; his fingers came away bloody.

Speaking weakly, I guess I hit my head when I was knocked down by the explosion, there’s a knot forming on my forehead. He rubbed it gently.

The three men were paying no attention to him as they were busy examining and looking at the big hole in the floor near what remained of the library steps. The fireman kicked a charred piece of wood.

The fire seems to be out, but we’ll make sure.

He pulled the radio from his belt and started to call for a hose to be brought inside—he saw a yellow suit framed by the door. He motioned towards the door and another fireman; a young lady, dressed in yellow waterproof fire gear came in lugging the heavy brass nozzle section of a flattened fire hose.

She pulled her hood down—it was hot—her blond hair tumbled out. She moved towards the hole in the floor. The young firewoman pointed the nozzle at the charred wood underneath the sub-floor and a heavy burst of water sprayed out.

The senior fireman was reminded of the blond girl that remodeled bathrooms on the DIY channel on TV. What was that construction gal’s name on TV? Ah. Matthews; Amy Matthews!

A car slammed on its brakes out front and a tall man jumped out of the passenger side and ran towards the house.

He shouted as he ran, Harmon! Marsha! Are you two OK? He leaped towards the front porch stairs and the open front door—taking two steps at a time.

I’m fine Nate, I’m fine. I fell. I hit my head on the counter top on my way down to the floor I guess. I was answering the phone and was hidden partly behind the refrigerator in the corner.

He laughed—a slightly stressful laugh. Marsha’s not here. Harmon paused, How did you know?

It knocked you down way over there! You are lucky you were not near it. We have a section that monitors the local police and fire department 24 by 7. Remember, we started doing that just before you left. What’s wrong with your arm?

I had the box in my hands at first as I carried it from the front door. The phone rang and I sat it on the step going to the library and ran to the phone. Nothing wrong with my arm, I must have rubbed it across my forehead.

He looked at his arm, Hmm! There are some small cuts and scratches, must be from the glass.

Nate looked at him, Box! What box?

The policeman looked up. He was on his knees looking at the pieces of glass and cardboard shreds near the ruined steps. A box! You carried it! What did it look like?

A flat pasteboard box sort of like a pizza box. A man in a light blue work uniform brought it to the door and asked me to sign for it. Everything looked innocent, even the car.

What kind of a car?

The policeman stood up and wrote something in a nice four by six black leather notebook—a Christmas present from his two young children—they had saved their pennies together and bought it for him.

It was a small compact. Japanese! Yes! It was a Honda Civic, perhaps a 2000. The green paint was faded. Older maybe, could have been a 1999 or even an older car; a 1998. It had a dent in the door below the delivery company sign. I think the sign was magnetic and removable. It had ACE DELIVERY in dark blue letters.

What did the delivery man look like?

Around twenty-four, sandy hair, green eyes, and about as tall as me and he had freckles, lots of freckles. His ears stuck out. Oh! And buck teeth—a very bad overbite. His hair was buzzed short. He took his company cap off and scratched his forehead while he was waiting for me to sign the slip.

That’s great! You ought to have been a cop. He kept writing.

Nate and Harmon smiled slightly as they looked at each other.

If I sent out an artist out could you help her make a sketch? We have a free-lance artist on call and she can be here in just a few minutes. She lives in Seabrook.

Sure, I remember the delivery man vividly. I have a great short-term memory for people’s faces. Next month I wouldn’t have a clue, well I would, but not as clear.

The officer stepped outside and punched his Globalstar satellite phone. He spoke only a few words and then just listened. He wrote something in his notebook and then spoke to Harmon again.

The young lady said she could be here in the next thirty minutes—she is on another sketching mission right now only five miles away and she is almost finished. You plan on being here for a while, right Sir?

Yes, I’ll be here.

Good! Don’t clean up anything yet. Forensics will want to see what kind of bomb this was. Leave the glass and bomb debris just as it is. We’ll have some experts out here within the next forty minutes.

He stopped talking again. Oh! Her name is Lea Springer. She’ll introduce herself.

He turned away, Hey Bill, tape this off with the yellow tape would you please!

A uniformed young man already had a roll of police Crime Scene tape in his hands and was walking towards the front door.

Could you two go into another part of the house while I do this please?

Sure. Nate and Harmon moved towards the living room. The young man with the roll of yellow and black striped tape and words started taping off the area behind them.

CHAPTER TWO

Marsha Gregory was hesitant. She kept looking at the cake displays. There were six pre-decorated cakes in the closed and cooled display case.

She said to herself, Should I buy the birthday cake now? It’s on sale, but Harmon’s birthday isn’t until Thursday, today is only Tuesday afternoon.

The cake was perfect. It was German Chocolate, Harmon’s favorite, and it was still slightly warm. It had been decorated with extra grated coconut shreds to make it look like snow and snow drifts. The cake artist had waited until it had cooled just enough so the mounded shreds of coconut didn’t sink into the gooey top. He had placed a stylized horse, a cat, and a dog, along with a few candy chickens that were scattered about the top as if pecking in the grated chocolate barn lot.

A tiny peppermint snow shovel was stuck in the coconut shreds. One of the candy fowl might have been a turkey. Marsha wasn’t sure. There was a chocolate stick fence surrounding the animals and a chocolate shed made of Hershey bar parts. The small horse barn was made of chocolate as well and had coconut sprinkled on top made to look like snow. The cake looked pretty and delicious—and masculine.

I’m not sure if that is possible, but it seems to be very male and the coconut snow and the snow shovel makes it look like a guy thing.

She was talking to herself just above a whisper. The clerk was listening attentively as she continued.

She said out loud, I wonder if the scene on the cake needs a tiny fishing pole. Harm likes to fish now that he is retired. He never had time before. He drives for almost three hours to the lake.

The clerk reached into a drawer and stuck a small replica of a cane pole into the cake—it was made of hard caramel or maybe hard taffy.

He was still listening.

She looked up at the clerk, We live on the last ten acres of an old plantation. It was divided and sold off over a hundred years ago, there used to be horses on the place until my husband, Harmon, bought it. We have a dog and two cats, the cats live in the barn loft; they hide there—and we have a dozen or so chickens and some geese milling about. This cake is perfect!

The clerk was smiling and nodding his head. He was pleased with himself for thinking of adding the extra animals—and the hard caramel candy fishing pole.

She turned away from the clerk and looked at the cake once more.

I’ll take it now. I am sure it will keep for a couple of days if I keep it cool. I will make room in the second fridge somehow.

The young clerk, and part-time cake decorator at the bakery, smiled and nodded again. He started unfolding a pink pre-flattened cake box.

She placed the pink cake box in a cart, pushed the cart to Harmon’s truck, and set the cake on the floor on the passenger side. Her cell phone was in the front seat; it was playing a Ring-Tone.

Hello! Harmon you sound funny. What’s wrong?

She thought he was sick or something. He sounded really strange as he told her about the explosion. He finished talking.

She almost screamed, I’ll be right home!

She slammed the stick shift into low gear, slipped the clutch, and roared out of the small shopping center parking lot. Marsha broke several speed records and ran two neighborhood stop signs. All the children were in school at this hour and these were all ten and twenty acre former plantation lots. She could see in all three directions. The long cake box was safe—it was wedged in between the transmission hump and the door on the passenger side. Not that she cared.

The front yard was a madhouse. Two police cars, a fire truck, and a rescue EMS vehicle, were all parked on the circular drive and now a TV 10 news van was pulling in from the road.

Harmon was waiting on the front steps; he had a small bandage taped to his forehead. He had ripped the rest of the shirtsleeve off and she thought he looked odd dressed that way, one long sleeve and one short.

She shook her head and said to herself, What a meaningless thought.

A black unmarked SUV pulled up. Two men in dark suits strode up the driveway. They weren’t smiling and paid no attention to the yellow tape.

She walked towards Harman and spoke loudly, What happened to your head? She gave him a careful hug and quick kiss—she had noticed blood seeping through the bandage on his forehead.

There was an explosion; I was knocked down and I guess I hit my head on the kitchen countertop. I’ll be OK. It doesn’t hurt very much. I should have been more cautious and just crumpled as I was trained to do many years ago. Instead I tried to catch myself on the barstool back, but only succeeded in hitting my head on the way down. The barstool swiveled and I lost my grip. It all happened so fast!

"You seem to be OK except your eyes look a little strange. Wait here, I’ll