Weeds in The Garden of Love

By Steven J. Daniels

Craig Andrews' marriage is over. He checks into the Sunset Motel and begins a gut-wrenching journey to a new life. He meets and befriends Garth Hodgson, an innocent "dead-beat dad" being persecuted by Lorne Davis, the ruthless and philandering prosecutor for the Justice Department's Office for Support Order Enforcement known as the SOE. Garth enlists Craig's help to expose Lorne Davis and destroy his career.

 

The storyline shifts when a mass murderer begins a killing spree. A hard-nosed detective is determined to stop the killer and is only a few steps behind.

 

This page-turning suspense thriller exposes dysfunctional people trying to ease their suffering through alcohol, illicit sex, and cold-blooded murder. It's a story about more than winning and losing.

 

It's about survival.

 

"Could not put it down! Kept me totally riveted. The author did a great job channeling real human emotions. I laughed and cried along with the characters."

          - Janet Hawkins

 

"Kept my interest from start to finish. Good read with plenty of twists and turns. Highly recommend it to everyone."

          - Mikeob

 

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Unknown Publishing Company
• Release date: Aug 10, 2010
• ISBN: 9781393525790

Steven J. Daniels

Steven J. Daniels transitioned from a comedy writer/performer to an author of mystery and political thriller novels. He has worked in the entertainment industry, professional sports, law enforcement, commercial aviation, and politics providing him a unique perspective on life. He lives outside Toronto with his family.

Book preview

ONE

The Beach

November 1985

No one would hear the gunshot. White-capped waves pounded the deserted beach in relentless succession. He drove through racing sheets of rain pelting the empty parking lot and turned onto the bicycle path. He pulled in and parked behind the public restrooms near the beach volleyball courts.

Glenrose Beach was a familiar place to him. When they were dating, they had wonderful times down here. The warm summer evening strolls along the boardwalk, and¾

The image of the carnage from last night burst into his mind. He reveled in reliving every detail. He took another swig from the near-empty fifth of Jack Daniels. He had no guilt, no remorse, only the satisfaction of revenge. And so he should. They had taken everything from him and his life was in ruins.

He stepped out of his car and checked to ensure no one was around. No one was. He took a small red toolbox out of the trunk and tucked it under his arm. He climbed back into the driver’s seat and locked the car doors. He opened the toolbox and picked up his .357 magnum revolver.

Time to end it. He placed the barrel in his mouth and tasted gunpowder residue. He aimed the weapon upwards and pulled back the hammer.

Before the black void, he felt the bullet exit the top of his head.

Four years earlier

TWO

Sunset Motel

November 1981

Craig could not believe there were no hotel rooms available—anywhere. Yes, he lived in a small city with a limited number of hotels, but why no vacancies on an ordinary Saturday in November? This doesn’t make sense, he thought.

He found out why from a perky young front-desk clerk at another fully booked downtown hotel. The Jehovah’s Witnesses are having a big convention, she said.

I didn’t know they had conventions, Craig said.

Every year, the desk clerk said. This year, our city’s hosting them.

Craig thanked her and walked out to his car. Just my luck, he thought. Turfed out of my home when every decent hotel room is booked.

As a last resort, Craig headed for the motels out on the interstate. He passed through a seedy part of town. At the entrance to a service road, a rental sign trailer indicated the Sunset Motel was a half-mile up the road. The Sunset Motel! I forgot about that place. Hope they have a room. Craig stopped at the motel across the street from a 7-11. The sign outside read: Sunset Motel - Daily Rates ___ VACANC . The Y was missing.

The missing y seemed appropriate to Craig. He had so many missing whys: why his marriage to Chrissie had turned into a war, why she had become so distant, unreasonable, and argumentative, why his two kids had to grow up in a broken home, and why his secure and comfortable life had become a search for shelter.

Craig had done his best to explain to his kids why he had to leave. Heather was five, and Craig hoped she would understand. She hugged him and said: I love you, Dad. Then she went to her room to play.

His son, Robbie, was seven and not as accepting as Heather. Craig told him everything would be okay. Robbie avoided eye contact and appeared ready to bolt out of the room. Craig understood Robbie. They had a special bond. Craig was at his birth and cradled him in his first moments of life. When Craig finished explaining the situation to him, Robbie said he understood. Craig ruffled his hair and Robbie managed a smile.

Then, Craig thought about the horrible scene this morning in the garage. It would be etched in his memory forever.

*     *     *     *     *

Craig had finished loading most of his belongings into his Toyota Tercel. He opened his car door, and Robbie ran to him. He had followed him out to the garage. Robbie grabbed Craig’s leg to prevent him from getting into the car.

Don’t go, Dad! I don’t want you to go!

I have to go, Robbie. I love you, and I told you—I’ll see you soon. Now, be a good boy, and go back into the house.

I won’t let go, Dad! I won’t! I won’t! I can’t!

Listen to me, Robbie. You have to let go. Craig unlocked Robbie’s arms from around his leg. I’ll be back to see you soon.

Craig checked to be sure Robbie’s hands were not in the way and closed the car door. Robbie was crying and screaming at the car window. Craig put his car into reverse and backed out. He stopped before entering the street and looked into the garage. Robbie’s tears cascaded down his cheeks. My little boy’s heart is broken and he doesn’t know what going to happen, Craig thought. He drove away and didn’t look back. He didn’t want Robbie to see his tears.

Father and son―broken-hearted and facing an uncertain future.

*     *     *     *     *

The Sunset Motel was a ‘60s-style standard-issue motor hotel. They seem to be everywhere and appear to be the same design. It’s like there is a weird motel architecture law forcing them all to have white stucco walls, a flat roof complete with the fake cedar shake-shingled overhang, and rusted wrought iron railings around the second floor. Standard landscaping for this style of motel includes short faded-brown evergreens lining the sidewalk to the motel office, parking spots with faded-white paint room numbers, and red plastic geraniums in chipped white-plaster urns. Judging by the number of cars parked outside the motel rooms, Craig assumed the sign was right, and they would have a room available.

The motel clerk was a skinny kid with horn-rimmed glasses and a shoulder-length mullet. He handed Craig a registration card. Craig filed out his name and stopped. He didn’t like the name, Craig Andrews—not today anyway. Craig Andrews was the guy who received a threatening letter from some lawyer telling him he had one week to vacate the matrimonial home, or his wife would leave with the children. Craig Andrews was the one who couldn’t get her to talk about it. He was the one who drove away and left his son crying in the garage. He was the loser who had to stay at this s**thole motel. That’s who Craig Andrews was today.

The kid tapped the card. I can’t give you a key until you fill out the card.

Huh? Craig said. Sorry—been quite a day. Craig handed the card to the clerk. Worked here long?

My parents own the place.

There was a television playing in a room behind the desk. He leaned to his left to catch a glimpse. The kid’s parents were in the living room, watching a hockey game on a television set with an antenna sitting on top. Unbelievable, Craig thought. Haven’t seen a TV with rabbit ears since I was a kid. S**t. Those people are stuck back in the sixties. They have a starburst clock and shag carpeting, for f**k sake!

The kid’s parents must have sensed something because they turned around in their chairs and stared at Craig. They had that—seen-this-type-a-million-times-before—look on their faces. Craig grinned at them.

You live back there with your parents? Craig asked.

Yeah.

Tough gig.

The kid didn’t respond. He was busy taking a key off its hook on the board behind him. The crowd cheered on the television indicating someone had scored a goal. The kid dangled the key while watching for the instant replay. Room twenty-two, he said. Second floor. Round the back.

Craig took the key from the kid’s outstretched hand. Twenty-two, he thought. Good ol’ double deuces, my sweater number in hockey. Wore it all the way through Junior A and even in the minors. Craig would kid the other guys on the team and tell them he was a favorite with the fans: I may be number twenty-two in the program, but I’m number one in their hearts. His teammates would groan and throw hockey gloves, orange peels, or wads of tape at him.

Craig continued to stare at the plastic key fob. He remembered the overnight bus rides, the practical jokes, and the camaraderie. What had happened to all the guys he played with over the years; the other journeyman players—guys like him who loved the game and never made it to the NHL? Craig had been fortunate to receive a college hockey scholarship. College reminded him of Chrissie and what had happened today. Where am I going to end up?

The kid repeated himself thinking Craig hadn’t heard him. Room twenty-two, mister. Second floor, ‘round the back.

Oh, s**t. The kid’s talkin’ to me. Thanks. See you later. The kid had already turned around again to watch the game. Craig had never felt so alone.

Craig pulled his car behind the motel and found his parking spot marked with a faded white number 22. His car was loaded to the roof. Kinda sad, he thought, when most of what you own in the world fits into a Toyota Tercel. Craig would return home in a few days for the rest of his belongings.

The motel room was what he expected: a drooping double bed, stained yellow corduroy couch, orange armchair, and brown imitation wood-grain coffee table, dresser, and bedside tables. A prehistoric television sat on the end of the dresser facing the bed. A stained picture of sailboats tacking against a stiff breeze adorned the wall above the bed. A yellow swag lamp was in one corner hanging from a gold chain anchored to the ceiling.

Craig threw his suitcase onto the bed. He chuckled. S**t, I think my Aunt Liz and Uncle Al had a lamp like that back in the fifties, he said. "All this room needs is a picture of Dogs Playing Poker and it’d be perfect." Craig laughed for the first time today.

Craig finished unloading his car and unpacked his suitcase. He walked across the street to the 7-11. He bought a TV Guide, a six-pack of beer, and a package of Fig Newtons. The teenage clerk was filing her nails when Craig approached the till. Craig paid for his order, and she handed him his change. Nothing like a balanced diet, huh? Craig asked.

The cashier rolled her eyes, exhaled, and went back to filing her fingernails. Teenagers, he thought. He picked up his groceries and headed back to the motel. I don’t think anyone on this planet knows I’m alive—or cares.

Craig opened a beer and checked the TV Guide. A movie was starting in a few minutes. As he waited, he thought about how this day had changed his life. Yesterday I had a family, a job, and a house. Today it’s gone! One stinkin’ day and I lost it all. Kids. Job. House. Oh, yeah, almost forgot—wife, too.

He still didn’t know why Chrissie asked him to leave. Sure their marriage was in trouble, but he believed they could work it out. It didn’t make sense. Craig thought about Robbie and Heather. He missed them already. He tried not to think about the scene in the garage. The image of Robbie hanging onto his leg put a lump in his throat. Will our lives ever be normal again?

Craig was weary of thinking about what happened today. He wanted to watch television and shut his mind off. Tomorrow, he’d try to figure it out and decide what he was going to do. Right now—the movie was starting.

And so it was, on the first night of his new life, Craig Andrews sat in room twenty-two of the Sunset Motel sipping on a beer, eating Fig Newtons, and watching Kramer vs. Kramer.

... on a television set with rabbit ears.

THREE

Reflections

The next day Craig headed out early for a quiet walk in Lewis Park. The sun beamed out of a cloudless sky, and a warm breeze rustled the fallen leaves. The park was full of people enjoying a beautiful Sunday together. Young lovers were lying on blankets or strolling hand in hand. Families were having picnics. Children were playing, laughing as they ate ice cream, or crying because they weren’t. Dogs were chasing sticks, Frisbees, and squirrels.

Craig meandered along the walking path through the park. Yesterday’s departure had left him dazed and confused. He was a husband and father one day—single and alone the next. He needed time to adjust and adapt to this new reality.

Worst of all, he didn’t know why Chrissie asked him to leave. I tried to talk to her about it, but she wouldn’t tell me. Didn’t she realize she was not only throwing me out of my own home but also out of my job? Craig shook his head. Why the hell didn’t she want to talk about it?

Craig stopped by the duck pond near the center of the park. He tried to skip a stone across the water, but it hit once and sank. He sat on a bench overlooking the water and took a small paper bag out of his jacket pocket. He threw pieces of sugar donuts to the ducks. Nearby, a boy and his dad were playing catch. The kid missed the ball and it rolled over to Craig’s feet. He didn’t notice. He was preoccupied with thinking about Chrissie and what had happened. She’s not the same person I married. Back then I could do no wrong. Of course, then it got to the point I couldn’t do anything right. She found fault with everything I did. But, God forbid if I said she was wrong, she’d go f**kin’ ballistic. In her mind, she was always right. If she had a problem, well, someone else caused it. Nothing was ever her fault. She always blamed someone else for her problems—usually me.

Craig sat on a park bench near the soccer field. There were two teams of young kids on the pitch and the sidelines were filled with anxious parents. I don’t know what I’m going to do, he thought. I’ve never felt so hurt and alone, but it’s better than staying there with her. Especially after the fight we had the night before I left. I’ve never seen her so angry. "Oh, wait a sec. Yes, I have, Craig whispered. That night when we were still newlyweds, he thought. I made the mistake of telling her she was wrong about something. She went ballistic and unleashed a stream of profanity that would make a drill sergeant blush. Then she went into our bedroom, slammed the door, and shoved the dresser against the door. I slept on the couch. Craig managed a chuckle at the crazy memory. The only good thing that came out of it was her insane temper tantrum taught me a lesson. I learned to never tell her anything she didn’t want to hear or to criticize her behavior. Those were buttons I vowed to never push again. I learned the only way our relationship would survive was to adopt a peace-at-any-price attitude. It worked for a while, but a person can only bend to another person’s will for so long. I finally reached the breaking point. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to stand up for myself, but—it was too late.

Craig stood up from the park bench and continued along the pathway. He felt a lot better, but was well aware he had a long way to go. He had massive rage lurking beneath the surface. Anger escalated during their marriage; a result of caving into her will on everything and avoiding arguments for the sake of peace and quiet. He suppressed his anger for so many years it was like a living entity locked in a cage. His survival instinct locked it there, and he didn’t dare let it out. Not yet. Craig had other priorities.

First, he had to create a life for himself. He couldn’t live at the Sunset Motel forever. He had to find a job, look for a decent place to live, and make arrangements to see his kids. His kids. Craig considered driving past his house in Botsford Downs. He might catch a glimpse of them. He changed his mind. If they saw me, they’d be upset.

Craig headed for his car. He pulled out of the parking lot and drove back toward The Sunset Motel. I need to find someone I can talk to about this, he thought. Someone I can trust. I used to have some like that— "F**k her!" he said. His sudden rage startled Craig.  He had no control over it. It was too powerful. I’d better stay away from her.

Craig drove along wondering if he could ever get over the rage. Chrissie was responsible for destroying his family. Thoughts of revenge and redemption raced through his mind.

Craig pounded on the steering wheel with both hands. No! That’s not me. I don’t do s**t like that. Chrissie will get what’s coming to her without any help from me.

Craig had no idea how prophetic that was.

*     *     *     *     *

The Sunset Motel was quiet. The weekend was over, and everyone with a home to go to—had gone. Craig lay in the dark listening to music on the clock radio beside the bed. One of his favorite songs came on: Against the Wind by Bob Seger and The Silver Bullet Band. The lyrics took on a special meaning—like the song was written especially for him—for right now—for tonight. He closed his eyes and tears streamed onto his pillow. You’re right, Mr. Seger. I was runnin’ against the wind. But what’s done is done. I have to figure out where my life is headin’ and how to take care of my kids. Then he was hit with a horrible thought. He wouldn’t be living with them. His children’s safety was beyond his control.

Please, God—take care of Robbie and Heather for me, he whispered in the dark. And let me see them soon. It surprised Craig he was praying out loud. But who else do we talk to when we’re sad and alone in the dark? Who else would listen to us? Who else would want to?

The song finished and Craig turned off the radio. A wailing siren out on the interstate came closer and closer before passing and fading into the night. The light of the motel’s yellow security floodlights shone through a sliver where the curtains did not meet. The reflection from the imitation wood-grain coffee table was casting an eerie glow. Craig was too tired, too emotionally exhausted, to get out of bed and fix the curtain. He fell asleep wondering if he had a safety pin.

*     *     *     *     *

At 8 o’clock the next morning, Craig was dressed and ready to head home to pick up the rest of his belongings. He checked himself in the mirror on the dresser. Up in the top corner of the mirror, he read a typewritten note attached with scotch tape:

The Sunset Motel is pleased to offer our guests a complimentry [sic] continental breakfast served from 6:00 AM to 9:00 AM every morning in the Lobby.

Craig chuckled at the spelling. But, hey, if they’re pleased to offer it, it must be good. He was still smiling when he opened the door to the so-called lobby. The motel office was deserted. He could hear the old couple yelling at each other back in the owner’s residence. Craig couldn’t tell if they were angry or hard of hearing.

Craig helped himself to the continental breakfast, which consisted of store-bought powdered sugar donuts, accompanied by metallic-tasting coffee from a huge silver percolator. Craig found a stack of small Styrofoam cups beside the percolator and poured coffee from the spigot. He dumped in a packet of powdered creamer and attempted to stir the floating white lumps with a red plastic stir stick. Some kinda classy joint I live in, he thought. Craig blew on his coffee in a vain attempt to cool it. He passed on the donuts.

His