Castle's Keep

By Thomas Cox

Caryn Castle, a small town police officer in the Midwest, kills a man in self-defense while on duty, a traumatic event that shakes her confidence. At the same time, in Florida, an ex-husband, Jimmy Castle, is involved with a mob hit man in a rip-off of drug money. Double-crossed, Jimmy manages to swipe the loot but makes the mistake of heading back to his hometown. He is pursued by the initial hit man, the Pray-er, and another gunman, Luis Santana, who was in on the heist.

A cat-and-mouse game ensues in which Caryn finds not only herself but also her family in danger if the money isn't returned to the Pray-er and Santana. Her only hope of saving herself and the people she loves is to either cooperate with the Pray-er or to outsmart him. Re-arming herself, Caryn vows to bring the pursuit and the danger to an end in a face-to-face encounter. One certainty exists for her: not all the players will survive the crucial hour.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468541373

Thomas Cox

Thomas Cox is an award winning writer of adult crime stories in the mystery/suspense genre. He also writes adventure and fantasy books for your readers. Currently the author lives in Indianapolis, Indiana.

Book preview

1

Officer Caryn Castle had a bad feeling about this before the police car swung through the neighborhood and her partner and driver, Cody Blake, switched off the siren but kept the flashing lights on. She saw the people caught in their headlights, most clad in housecoats and pajamas, grouped ahead across the street from the house. They were conversing, pointing, at the single-story frame structure with its lights on.

Cody Blake eased to a stop, backing up some of the onlookers. He got out on his side, closest to the people, and Caryn got out on the other side. The group, momentarily at least, fell silent at the arrival of the two uniformed city cops. Caryn and Cody looked at each other over the roof of the car, and Caryn read the apprehension in Cody’s eyes. Domestic disturbance was always an iffy proposition, and especially when it involved someone like Truman Wilson.

Lights stay on, Cody Blake told Caryn, indicating the red and blue flashers. Let him know we’ve arrived. Might be enough to quiet things. He turned to the gathering crowd. You folks get away. Go on home now. Don’t bunch up out here.

What’s your plan, Cody? one of the neighbors called. You gonna shoot ol’ Truman?

That initiated a chorus of questions, the throng all wanting to know, first of all, the same thing: What are you going to do about it? Caryn looked at her partner and saw in his face that he didn’t have a clue. Neither did she. Cody waved off the questions and turned toward the house.

Caryn, too, stared in that direction, at the closed, front window blinds with a light showing behind them. Mentally, she placed in her mind the spacing distance to the houses on either side, knowing her partner was doing the same thing. Behind her, the questions gradually died down, and it became quiet on the street again.

Is he still in there? she asked to no one in particular.

A murmuring of voices confirmed that he was.

Caryn’s own breathing altered suddenly, surprising her. Over a year on the force and she hadn’t once drawn her pistol while on duty. This night, she hoped, would not be the first time. But Truman Wilson? Nobody was as unpredictable as Truman when he’d been drinking. Caryn had handled and cuffed a few drunks, had stopped and ticketed speeders, had helped her uncle Armenis, the Chief of Police, break up a few quarrels. She wished Armenis were here now. He could talk people down.

Caryn drew in a long, slow breath. You’re sure of that?

He’s there, Caryn, another bathrobe-clad neighbor said. So’s his wife an’ kids.

A woman spoke up: You gotta get them out—‘fore he kills ‘em.

This started another buzzing from the crowd.

He won’t do that, said Caryn, trying for a tone of confidence she didn’t feel. We’ve known Truman a long time. Let us handle it.

Where’s your uncle, Caryn? a man called to her. Armenis send you ‘stead of comin’ hisself?

He’s got to sleep sometimes, too, Caryn replied. And that’s where you people oughta be, at home. So back off—please.

She knew that wouldn’t get results, but she had to try. These were friends and neighbors. Everybody in a small town like Vinton considered themselves neighbors whether they liked someone or not.

Who reported he’s got a gun? asked Cody Blake. Cody was a small, wiry man, more veteran on the force though only two years older in age than Caryn. Somebody seen him with it?

Heard him, a man replied. He come out front an’ shot a hole in the sky.

Cody looked over at Caryn, and Caryn read his expression again. As if he were saying: oh, shit, we were having a decent night of it until now.

Okay, Cody said, finally. We’ll take care of it. You folks get outa here.

That fell on the same deaf ears as Caryn’s request had. Nobody was about to leave.

Nothing’s gonna happen ‘til you clear this area, Cody said. You’re at risk now. I mean it, people. Back the hell up. At least move down a ways.

The onlookers muttered, shrugged, and a few grudgingly began to spread apart. Three, Caryn counted them, actually retreated several yards.

Castle, you go ‘round back, Cody said to her. Gimme a squawk when you get there.

Caryn hitched her pistol belt higher. For some reason it felt unusually heavy. Her belt held a radio, handcuffs, Mace, flashlight, and six bullet loops with extra cartridges for her loaded .38 Police Special. The .38’s were Armenis Messler’s handgun of choice for his city police force. The county boys all armed themselves with 9mm semi-automatics that held at least double the loads. The belt loop for her nightstick was empty. Her nightstick was back in her apartment where she had forgotten it when dressing hurriedly for duty. Strange how that occurred to her now.

Strange, also, how she had started swallowing repeatedly to keep her throat from getting dry.

Caryn crossed the front yard, keeping her eye on the house windows and door, not drawing and switching on her flashlight until she was at the side. There was a fifteen to twenty foot clearance with no fence between the side of Truman Wilson’s house and his neighbor’s, and you could see the property line in the dark—or at least feel it—because the grass was nearly ankle deep on Truman’s property. He probably hadn’t mowed at all yet this spring. This was an older section of town with that middle-scale mixture of residents who either put some care and effort into maintaining their yards and homes, or didn’t. Truman Wilson was one who didn’t. It wasn’t surprising since most of his weekly paychecks from his garage job went into the tills of the downtown bars, a fact known to everyone. Another fact was Truman’s beligerance after a few drinks.

Caryn got to the rear and moved behind an oak tree. The backyard was littered with toys, scraps of automobile parts, and the grass had been worn to the bare ground in places where the kids had played. A pickup truck was parked in the yard close to the alley. All of this Caryn could tell not only by the flashlight she wielded but also by the considerably less than pitch darkness. The clouds moved in sparse clumps overhead and the moon showed through brightly.

The question in her mind was: what was Cody Blake preparing to do, and was he simply trying to place her in a safer location?

Castle?

Yo, Cody, Caryn said into her radio.

Are you in position?

I’m here, Caryn said, shifting her belt again. The night was muggy for late May with temperature in the sixties. Lots of stars visible above as well as the moon. The light from the house in front of her came from the kitchen. She was aware of the wetness under her arms. What now?

See anything?

I can look into Truman’s kitchen. It’s a mess. No movement inside.

See the kids? He’s got three—right?

Boy and two girls, Caryn said.

Okay, Cody’s voice said into her ear before a long pause. Caryn knew he was thinking hard, trying to figure out a way to get this done without getting anybody hurt. Finally, he said, I’m gonna try to talk him out unless you got a better idea.

Let’s call Uncle Armenis. Tell him we need backup. He can call in the sheriff’s department.

Cody’s voice was fainter when he replied to her, Won’t work.

Caryn understood. She knew how her uncle, Chief of Police Armenis Messler, and the county sheriff felt about each other. Uncle Armenis would not tell the sheriff he needed their help, certainly not with a domestic problem. No, what he would do is get out of bed, bitching, and come here himself. And, somehow, he would get Truman Wilson’s family out of the house.

Cody’s voice reached her. You stick where you are. Keep your eyes open. I’ll talk to Truman. Is there a tree back there?

Yeah, couple of ‘em, Caryn said.

Get behind one, Cody told her.

And if Truman comes out this way?

Don’t try to stop him. If the wife, or any of the kids come out, get ‘em behind the tree with you.

Don’t you take any dumb chances either, Caryn said.

’Nother thing, said Cody. Don’t draw your weapon unless it’s absolutely necessary.

Caryn hooked the radio to her belt and lifted her flashlight. She confirmed the litter in the back yard. Without thinking about it, she felt the fingers of her right hand unsnapping the safety strap on her holster. She drew in another long breath, realizing her back and underarms were now sticky with sweat.

A brief movement inside the rear of the house caught Caryn’s eye. A fleeting shadow at the window, in and out of her vision so quickly that it made her blink in surprise. She lowered her flashlight to avoid startling anyone, locked her stare on the back door and held it.

The door opened slowly.

A small figure slipped out and ran off the back porch.

With her free hand, Caryn reached out and caught a thin arm. Then she used her flashlight. It was Truman’s seven-year-old daughter. The little girl looked at Caryn with wide, frightened eyes.

Winnie! It’s me. Caryn Castle.

The little girl stopped struggling and blinked until Caryn moved the light away from her face. He’s gonna kill my momma. An’ my brother an’ sister, she cried.

No, he won’t.

He said he’s gonna, the girl insisted.

Caryn turned her head away and said, Dammit! below her breath. Now what should she do? She said to Winnie, I want you to do me a big favor, Winnie. This is really important. You get yourself in that truck and stay there. Lock the doors and stay inside. Will you do that for me?

The girl screwed up her face as tears rolled down her cheeks.

Winnie, I want to help your mom and your brother and sister, Caryn said. But you gotta help, too. You gotta be a big girl and do what I tell you.

Winnie nodded.

Caryn escorted her to the pickup, helped her climb inside, and shut the door behind her. Then she headed for the house.

She felt she had to do something. It wasn’t following Cody’s instructions, but Winnie, the little girl, had just told her Truman was threatening murder. She weighed Cody’s order against the likelihood of Truman Wilson going over the edge at any moment.

Remembering to take deep breaths, filling her lungs, Caryn eased onto the back porch. A part in the curtains gave her a partial view of the kitchen. Dishes in the sink and on the table, a chair overturned, something tomato looking smeared down the far wall. She recoiled before she realized it wasn’t blood she was looking at. It was too red. Tonight’s dinner, most likely.

She drew her service revolver, holding it down alongside the seam of her pants, the way she had been taught by her uncle and Cody and at the academy. It felt unusually heavy in her hand, a dangerous weight dragging down on her.

Then she heard the first shot.

2

It came from inside the house—somewhere else—not the kitchen. Shocked, Caryn jumped back, reaching for the radio, acting instinctively, but stopped. Instead, she reached out and tried the back door knob, and it turned.

Caryn hooked her flashlight to her belt and raised her service revolver.

The door opened inward. Caryn stepped in, and the atmosphere changed markedly. It was suddenly hotter, stifling, the tomato-paste smell pungent. She eased around the messy table, her eyes on the doorway to the corridor. The lights were on, but she couldn’t see into any other rooms that were offset along the hallway. Straight ahead was the living room, and she could see the front door with a splintery round hole in the middle of it.

Truman!

It was Cody Blake’s voice, calling from outside the front door.

Don’t be a goddam fool! Quit shooting! It’s me—Cody! Cody Blake! Open the door slowly and put your hands up.

Caryn took another light step forward. Where were Truman’s wife and other two kids? In the living room with him? That’s where Truman had to be, from where he had shot through his own front door.

She breathed a sigh when she heard Cody’s voice again from out front. He didn’t sound like he’d been hit.

What the hell’s the matter with you, Truman? What’cha shooting up your house for? It’s me, Cody Blake. You know me. Whatever your problem is, let’s talk it over.

Nobody from the living room answered.

Cody’s voice, faintly from the front, called, What’s bothering you, Truman? Talk to me, man! Hell, I’ll listen to you. There was silence in the living room. Come on, Truman! Goddammit! Cody called. We got cops all round your house. Don’t be dumb.

Cops all around? Just me, Caryn thought. She had to get closer. Had to get to a place where she could see into the living room. She heard a child’s whimpering from that location.

Hey, Truman! Cody called. I don’t want to get hurt, and nobody’s gonna hurt you. I’m coming in so we can talk. That’s all we’ll do, just talk. You can talk to me, right?

Caryn saw the knob of the front door turn and heard the latch click.

The sound of this gunshot, from inside the house with her, rocked Caryn back a step, the shock to her ears and senses so great that she had to stifle an outcry. She saw little splinters pop at the front door as the bullet went through. Then another hole appeared as a second shot followed closely after the first. The other young daughter screamed from somewhere in the living room.

Oh Christ! Caryn thought. Cody! Truman Wilson was killing him! Ears ringing, she wondered what the hell she should do.

Truman’s voice yelled out, Fuck you!

Caryn could envision Cody lying in a pool of his own blood on the front stoop. Her stomach heaved.

Now Cody’s voice came again, and Caryn almost wept with relief: You’re a dumb ass, Truman. Put down the gun. Nobody’s hurt yet. But you might hit one ‘a your neighbors. You can’t go shooting wild like that.

Truman Wilson didn’t put the gun down. He whanged another shot through his front door.

Maybe, Caryn thought, just maybe, Truman’s gun was now empty. Depended on what kind of gun he had. A revolver?—with six rounds in the cylinder?—fully loaded? A neighbor had said that Truman Wilson had fired a shot outside. Did he mean one shot?—or perhaps two? Now she wished she had asked. Four times he had fired here in the house that she knew of. It her ears would stop ringing, she could strain to listen for the click of a hammer on a spent shell. Then she could disarm Truman. She could go in fast and use the Mace if she had to.

Kill the bastard! Truman’s wife screamed from the living room. Cody Blake, you come in here and shoot this mother-fucking-son-of-a-bitch!

Aw shit, thought Caryn. Don’t piss him off any more than he is.

Shut up, bitch! she heard Truman snap. "What? You fucking him, too? You fucking Cody Blake?"

Screw you! his wife shouted back. You can’t run me out’a my house.

Oh God, Caryn thought, stop arguing with him. Boy, I really gotta pee. What a thought at a time like this.

Hey, Truman, Cody’s voice called. Tell you what. Send Ella and the kids out. We don’t need ‘em in the way. You don’t wanna hurt ‘em either. Then you an’ me can talk, and I’ll stay outside the house. That’s a deal, buddy.

Fuck you and your deal! shouted Truman.

This is going to be bad, thought Caryn.

Cody! Will you please just shoot this bastard! yelled Ella Wilson.

Truman’s voice: Shut up, bitch!

This ain’t getting us nowhere, Cody yelled from outside. What do you want? Some damn wild west show with guns blazing? I sure don’t. Truman, you’re gonna wind up in a whole helluva lot of trouble if you don’t listen to me. Man, you don’t wanna do hard time.

You screwing my wife, too? Truman’s voice shouted. I can kill both ‘a you!

Not if I kill you first! Ella yelled at her husband.

Cody’s voice called in, Truman, you don’t wanna hurt anybody. Listen, man—you listening? —we got off on the wrong foot. I swear to God I just wanna talk with you.

How many cops? Truman raised his voice. How many cops you got ‘round my house?

Caryn shuddered when she heard Cody’s reply. Enough. If they see a gun, they might not understand you. Your intentions, know what I mean?

I can kill some ‘a you! Truman yelled back.

Get close to Truman, Caryn was thinking. Spot him and get close to him. If you hear that hammer fall on a spent shell, go for the Mace. But if you don’t, you got to get close enough to put the barrel of your gun in his ear. When he feels that cold steel in his ear, when you tell him to drop it, he’ll give it up because he knows he won’t have a chance. But you’ve got to get close to do it.

Edging closer to the corner of the living room, she could see Truman’s back now, facing away from her toward the front door, both hands in front of him holding the gun. She could call to him from here—tell him to drop it because she had him covered. Maybe he would. But he might not, too. He might not believe her, not the way he would if he felt that muzzle touch his skin.

Caryn caught a movement at the periphery of her vision. The wife, Ella, the other two kids, were huddled behind a sofa, the woman’s arms around the shoulders of the kids. Out of the way unless Truman deliberately started shooting at them.

Caryn lifted a finger to her lips, aimed at the little girl whose eyes suddenly widened when she saw her. The little girl’s mouth dropping open now. The mother looking around now, then the son, the oldest of the kids. The son, looking surprised too, yelling: Dad! Look out!

Oh, no!

Truman turning now, turning toward Caryn. And she was still too far away to put her own gun right against him. Too far to put the fear in him, or even consider the Mace. She could see it in his eyes when he turned.

Dear God, let his gun be empty!

Caryn jumped into a shooting stance, both hands leveling the service revolver in front of her.

Police! Caryn’s voice cracked. Drop it, Truman.

Truman glared at her. The fuck you doin’ here, bitch?

Come on, Truman. You know me. I’m Caryn. Caryn Castle. We went to school together. Put the gun down.

Truman’s thumb cocked the hammer on the old revolver he pointed at her.

One thought flashed in Caryn’s mind: He’s going to do it!

Caryn was already letting her breath ease out as she squeezed the trigger.

3

Jimmy Castle obliquely watched the Pray-er, pronounced with a long a, as in praying man, seated across from him, waggle his finger at the waiter, signaling him to bypass their table. Jimmy sucked the last of his rum and Coke, then carefully, keeping his hand from shaking, put the glass down and looked at his companion. The Pray-er, Jimmy knew, was watching him as carefully.

The Pray-er wore mirrored sunglasses, even inside the bar. Jimmy felt himself sweating despite the air-conditioning and the overhead fans. Odds were that he would wind up dead before morning.

The Pray-er’s actual name was Lionel DuPre. It was rumored that DuPre had been born in Canada, educated there, and that the nickname he preferred was Doc because he had a Ph.D. from some university. That this man, DuPre, was dangerous, Jimmy had no doubt. That fact had been borne out by Jimmy’s initial meeting with him.

Doc DuPre was one of those men who could be considered handsome in a mysterious and somber way, taller and leaner than Jimmy, though not skinny. Four or five inches taller than Jimmy’s five-nine, Doc had a slender-build but was wide-shouldered. His square chin bore a slight cleft in it, and he had brown eyes and brown hair. The brown hair had a little wave in a direct line above Doc’s right eyebrow and had a gray tint at his temples. Doc had brought no hat with him, and Jimmy suspected that he rarely, if ever, wore one. Jimmy also noted that Doc DuPre had a way of almost smiling that reminded Jimmy of movies he had seen in which snakes had been almost smiling before they struck.

His table companion appeared oblivious to numerous curious or interested glances from a number of women in the bar, the looks given indicating that those women wouldn’t be at all adverse to some attention from the man. As far as Jimmy knew, or had heard, Doc kept no particular woman in his life because it might possibly interfere with his great, and lethal, talent, which, again according to others, was in the employ of a major syndicate boss named Salvatore Rocco.

That Jimmy wasn’t already dead was something he considered a minor miracle. His initial encounter with Doc DuPre, the Pray-er, had been the result of very bad timing and worse luck.

Less than a week ago, Jimmy had had the bad judgment and misfortune to break into the house of Salvatore Rocco. It was a misfortune, fiasco in Jimmy’s recollection, because not only had he not been able to steal anything but also had got caught in the act by the Pray-er. That instant, in the dark, when he had felt the cold gun barrel touch his neck, Jimmy had come as close to soiling his pants as he ever had since he was four years old.

He had let himself be talked into the heist by a con man named Larry Kelp, who had heard it from another source and claimed to have access to a major fence, that getting into the big house on Bayshore Drive would be a cinch for somebody with Jimmy’s talents. Guy who owned the house, so Jimmy had been told, had a young wife who loved expensive jewelry. On top of that, at the wife’s insistence, the old trip-alarm security system was being dismantled and removed on one particular day, and a new, state-of-the-art, computerized, electronic-eye system was to be installed the next. Making, for a guy who knows about it, one brief window of opportunity, one single night when a clever and skilled burglar could pop the lock on a glass door at the rear, slip in and take off with the jewels. And it was rumored that there might be a lot of cash inside too, not necessarily in the owner’s private safe in his study. The wife was supposed to be keeping her jewels right in her dressing room upstairs.

Better yet, on that particular night, the owner was taking his wife to a symphony and a party afterwards. The owner had some guys working for him, Kelp had said, but they always accompany him everywhere he goes. All Jimmy had to do was wait and watch for the limo to leave, then go in and make a quick, clean sweep of anything valuable he could carry. Nothing to it, right? He would meet Kelp later, divide the cash, and fence the jewels.

Only it hadn’t worked that way.

Jimmy had got in all right, in the dark, using his first choice of lock-pick from his satchel with remarkable good luck. Then, his spirits elevated with the adrenalin, he had used his penlight to guide himself to the stairway. No sounds, no lights anywhere. Jimmy had found the wife’s dressing room, had unslung his knapsack, had zeroed his pen-light, held between his teeth, in on two boxes left on the table, one when he opened it containing a perfect pearl necklace, the other a diamond necklace with matching diamond earrings. He had just started to smile, still not hearing anything, when he felt the cold touch of a gun barrel stroking his right ear.

That’s when his sphincter nearly let go.

A second later a light was turned on, and Jimmy got his first look at the man called the Pray-er. The Pray-er had been shoeless, in stockinged feet, wearing slacks and open-necked shirt, and was holding an automatic pistol. In another second, with his free hand, the Pray-er had taken his folded sunglasses from his shirt pocket and put them on. Right there, at night, inside the house. He had kept them on while he interrogated Jimmy.

He had interrogated him in the kitchen of Rocco’s big house, both of them sitting opposite each other at a smaller dining table especially for the hired help, looking like two buddies about to indulge in a snack. Difference was, the Pray-er had placed his pistol on the table, muzzle pointed in Jimmy’s direction where he could get a good look at it. The Pray-er hadn’t even had to keep his hand on the gun. Jimmy wasn’t about to grab for it. He knew he’d never get it in time. That’s when the Pray-er identified himself by name.

He said, It’s DuPre. People call me Doc. Like Doc Holladay.

Jimmy had swallowed and said, The gunfighter. Are you a dentist?

I do extractions, but not teeth, Doc said. I have a Ph.D. in psychology.

Well, I’m certainly psyched out, Jimmy had thought. Dead before morning, at twenty-seven years old. Jesus! Everything he saw in the lighted kitchen etched itself into his brain in some surrealistic photograph as though it were a final futile attempt to register his mortality. He