No Rest: 14 Tales of Chilling Suspense

By Joslyn Chase

Fourteen spine-tingling tales guaranteed to chill and unnerve!

 

You'll find spies in training, experts in deceit, and desperate artists whose dreams are crushed. You'll meet disturbed domestics, ambitious chefs, and lowlifes with nothing left to lose.

 

You'll thrill at these suspense-packed stories. So catch up on your beauty sleep.

 

Once you start reading, it'll be No Rest for you!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paraquel Press
• Release date: Apr 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781952647017

Joslyn Chase

Joslyn Chase is a prize-winning author of mysteries and thrillers. Any day she can send readers to the edge of their seats, chewing their fingernails to the nub and prickling with suspense, is a good day in her book. Joslyn's story, "Cold Hands, Warm Heart," was chosen by Amor Towles as one of The Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2023. Her short stories have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, Fiction River, Mystery, Crime, and Mayhem, Mystery Magazine, and Pulphouse Fiction, among others. Known for her fast-paced fiction, Joslyn's books are full of surprising twists and delectable turns. You will find her riveting novels most anywhere books are sold. Joslyn's love for travel has led her to ride camels through the Nubian desert, fend off monkeys on the Rock of Gibraltar, and hike the Bavarian Alps. But she still believes that sometimes the best adventures come in getting the words on the page and in the thrill of reading a great story. Join the growing group of readers who’ve discovered the thrill of Chase! Sign up at joslynchase.com and get VIP access to great bonuses, like your free copy of No Rest: 14 Tales of Chilling Suspense, as well as updates and first crack at new releases. See you there!

Book preview

No Rest

Readers familiar with my thriller, Nocturne in Ashes , will recognize the heroine of this story, Riley Forte, and may have a clue or two about how she got herself into this mess.

This story is the result of juxtaposing two personal experiences I had while traveling in the great state of Georgia. Years ago, I drove from Virginia to Valdosta for a special training, much like Riley in this story, although the subject of my course was nothing so interesting as spycraft, like it was for her.

I was hit by a surprise blizzard that totally whited out the road and made for a perilous journey, even without the added complications Riley had to deal with.

Then, in 2007, my family moved from southern Spain to Washington state, planning to spend time with relatives on the east coast before driving cross country. We had two dogs and no room for them on the flight, so I came out a few weeks early with the dogs, rented a car in Virginia, and drove down to Georgia.

I was exhausted after the trans-Atlantic flight, but I was determined to reach my sister-in-law’s house before midnight. Two hours into the drive, my all-encompassing desire was to pull into a rest stop and grab a nap, but I didn’t dare. Every fifteen minutes or so, the beep of an emergency broadcast shrilled over the car radio, telling of a prison break and warning motorists not to pick up hitchhikers or stop in rest areas.

I got no rest. And neither will you as you read this chilling story.

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Concert pianist Riley Forte, renowned for her classical repertoire, tuned the rental car radio to a classic rock station and cranked it up hard. Proud Mary blasted through the confines of the little car as she beat out the rhythm on the steering wheel, enjoying the vibrations under her fingers, feeling the need for sound and movement after the long, trans-Atlantic flight.

By the time she’d sung the last rolling chorus, she’d passed the environs of the Savannah/Hilton Head airport and made it onto the freeway. Opening the vents, she turned the temperature dial to blue, letting icy air flow until the flesh of her arms rose in goosebumps and her nose dripped. She shivered, adjusting the knob to a more moderate setting, and watched the road signs for a convenience mart. Loud music and a brisk climate would only get her so far—she needed snacks and a refreshing beverage.

Riley activated the windshield wipers, clearing a layer of misty droplets from the glass. Her original plan had been to stay the night at the airport Marriot, saving the last leg of her trip, a hundred-and-fifty-mile drive to the countryside north of Valdosta, for the morning.

If only she’d stuck to the plan.

It seemed sensible to catch a good night’s sleep after sitting upright for sixteen hours in planes and airports, but her attendance at this training was vital and her ability to get there—or not—would reflect on her resourcefulness. The training, an intensive course in spycraft, would prepare her for her first undercover assignment, coming soon.

After playing a crucial role in stopping a serial killer, Riley had been recruited by the head of a private security organization who saw her concert pianist persona as the perfect cover for travel among certain circles. She’d interrupted a concert tour to make this trip, and time was short for her to learn and train. Now that she’d arrived back in the states, the weather report was predicting a blizzard of the magnitude native Georgians saw once in a lifetime. She had to tackle the drive now or risk missing the training.

Traffic on the freeway was sparse as folks settled in to wait out the coming storm. Riley exited and found a 7-Eleven, pulling into the near-empty parking lot. She shrugged into her favorite knee-length coat and zipped up, snagging her finger on a raw piece of the metal zipper.

Ouch! Wrapping a tissue around her bleeding finger, she examined the zipper, concluding it must have caught in the conveyor belt at airport security. I must find something to file that down, she muttered, grabbing her purse.

A blast of heat and the bitter smell of burnt coffee hit her as she entered the convenience store. She made a quick trip through the aisles, deciding on a bag of tortilla chips, some honey-roasted peanuts, and a box of Junior Mints. Not the healthiest fare, but interesting enough to stay awake for, she hoped. She also found a box of peppermint teabags and an insulated vacuum flask large enough to hold a quart of tea.

Do you have anything smaller? she asked the clerk, holding up the flask.

That’s the only thermos we got.

Happy to find a plentiful supply of near-boiling water near the coffee dispenser, Riley filled the flask and unwrapped four teabags, dipping them in to steep. After a moment’s thought, she added two more. The stronger, the better. She fastened the lid and took her purchases to the counter.

The clerk, a gentle-eyed man with the slight facial droop of a former stroke patient, pushed aside a crossword puzzle and slid the pencil behind his ear. Riley noticed it was sharpened to a point keen enough to draw blood. It had been little used on the black-and-white grid.

It’s a toughie, said the clerk. Cryptic, you know. Brit style.

His accent surprised her. Not a southern drawl, but the tones of New England. I adore cryptic crosswords, she said. Ordinarily, I’d love to help solve a clue, or two, but—

I know, dear. You’d best get home, and quick.

Riley shrugged, giving him an apologetic smile. I’m a long way from home. I’m driving to Valdosta tonight.

He fixed her with a stern gaze. You’ll do no such thing. Snow’s on the way, and locals don’t know how to handle the stuff. Roads will be bad. Hole up for the night—that’s my advice.

Riley thanked him and ran her credit card through the chip reader, taking the bag of snacks and the heavy thermos. She nodded a goodbye and headed for the door.

I’ll put you in my prayers tonight, the clerk called after her, retrieving the pencil from behind his ear. You’ll need it.

In the car, Riley placed the flask in the center console and popped the top, letting the aroma of peppermint fill the air, breathing it in. Firing the ignition, she re-entered the freeway and drove fast, traveling south to the junction turnoff. The sky beyond the windshield loomed with the dull gray of unpolished pewter, the last of the daylight draining away like dirty bathwater. Riley drank tea and tried to ignore her growing fatigue, switching the radio to a classical station and concentrating on composers, arrangements, and fingerings of pieces she’d studied in the past.

Forty minutes into her journey, she’d drunk half the quart of tea, and her bladder let her know it. Chafing at the waste of time, she steered the car into a rest stop and pulled on her coat, avoiding contact with the jagged zipper tag. She took care of business and flushed, hearing someone else enter the restroom as she finished up. Pulling open the stall door, she stepped out, startled by a figure huddled against the wall.

The woman wore a torn denim jacket, hanging crookedly on her slender form above a pair of baggy yellow sweatpants. Her dusty blonde hair stood out in snarled disarray, framing a face so pale it appeared there was more blood on the outside of it, than on the inside. The blood on the outside came from her nose and a cut above her right eyebrow. She trembled, like only the cinderblock wall held her upright.

Riley went to her instinctively, raising a hand to the ravaged face. What happened? she asked.

The woman drew a breath and let it trickle out in a shaky sigh. My boyfriend and I had a fight. Her voice sounded scratchy and harsh, but it was pure Georgian drawl.

Riley went to the sink and wet a paper towel, using it to dab the wound on the woman’s forehead. I don’t think this will need stitches, but you should at least get a butterfly bandage on it. She paused, handing over the paper towel so the woman could wipe her nose. You may not like me saying it, but you need a new class of boyfriend. Is he waiting for you outside?

The bruised eyes squeezed shut, the brow wrinkling in pain. No. He left.

"He left you here, wearing that, with a blizzard closing in? Riley clucked in disgust and snatched a clean paper towel from the dispenser, waving it savagely under the stream of water. She wrung it dry and exchanged it for the bloody wad in the woman’s hands. What’s your name?" she asked.

The woman sniffed, leaning her head back and pinching her nose. Dee, she said, the single syllable like a blast from a broken kazoo.

Hello, Dee. I’m Riley. Stifling a twinge of irritation over the delay it would bring, Riley said, Come on, I’m driving you to the next town where you should go straight to the police station and file assault charges.

The woman didn’t speak, only glared at Riley from the corner of one red-rimmed eye.

Riley sighed. That isn’t going to happen, is it?

Dee lobbed the sodden towel into the trash bin and yanked down another. No.

Riley washed and dried her own hands. Well, Dee, how about you mull it over in the car, with the heater on. Let’s get out of here.

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The incident at the rest stop worked even better than peppermint tea for keeping Riley awake. Fury and indignation stirred her blood and kept her heart tripping along above the normal rate. The sign for her junction loomed on the sullen gray horizon, and Riley turned west onto the highway, heading into the approaching storm, still determined to beat its arrival. She glanced at Dee, the white face tipped up, cheeks like chiseled stone, eyes closed.

I have some hot herbal tea in the thermos, if you’d like.

Dee opened her eyes like a woman coming out of a trance. She gave her head a little shake and looked at the flask between the seats. Not much of a tea drinker, she said, but lifted the thermos from its hollow and hefted it with both hands. Honey, this thing is heavy enough to brain a horse.

Now there’s a product feature I hadn’t considered. Riley turned her gaze back to the road and covered a tremendous yawn with the back of one hand.

Are you all right to drive? Dee asked, returning the flask to the console. You look pretty beat, if you don’t mind me saying.

I’ll be all right.

My mama always said there’s no rest for the wicked.

Riley didn’t answer, not sure how to interpret that. Her mother had often said the same thing, except in her version there was no rest for the weary. Either way, Riley figured she’d be getting no rest any time soon.

A tiny prickle of unease crossed her scalp. Now that she was isolated in the car with this stranger, the woman seemed less vulnerable and faintly menacing. As a rule, Riley didn’t pick up hitchhikers due to the potential hazards, and now she realized what she’d just done amounted to the same thing.

Y’all don’t talk like I do, Dee said. Where y’all from?

Riley resisted the urge to peek into the back seat. I live in Washington state, west of Seattle.

"I didn’t realize there was anything west of Seattle. Except the ocean."

Quite a bit, actually, Riley said. The Puget Sound, the Hood Canal, about a hundred lakes, and all the land that lies between, including my house.

What brings you to Georgia?

Business conference.

Oh? What kind of business brings you clear out here?

Riley gripped the steering wheel a little harder. Just one of those confidence-builder type of things.

I see. So you’ll be spending time with a bunch of strangers? Or are you meeting friends there?

The prickle across Riley’s scalp grew more pronounced. Was this woman just nosy, or did she probe with sinister intention, fishing to find out who’d miss Riley if she didn’t show up?

I’m meeting friends, Riley said.

That’s nice. I hope you—

The piercing signal of an emergency broadcast burst from the radio, cutting into Dee’s response. Oh, that storm, she drawled in annoyance. But the announcement wasn’t about the storm.

Authorities in Georgia are searching for an escaped convict from Arrendale State Pri—

Look out! Dee shouted, pointing ahead with frantic jabbing motions, the passing headlights from an oncoming car highlighting her face like an x-ray lamp, turning it skeletal.

Riley pumped the brake and stared out the windshield, alert for danger signs and seeing none. What was it?

You didn’t see the deer? Dee asked, incredulous. Running alongside the road. It almost sprang out in front of you.

No, I missed it.

And thank heaven for that. If you’d hit the damn thing it would have put a real kink in your plans.

Mmmm, Riley agreed. Did you hear that radio announcement?

About the prison break? Some of it. The usual—consider inmate armed and dangerous, exercise caution, don’t pick up hitchhikers or stop in rest areas.

She paused, and Riley glanced over. Instead of meeting her gaze, Dee looked out the window and said, Guess I’m lucky you stopped for a pee before hearing that. I might’ve been setting up camp for the night and freezing my buns off.

Yes, it’s your lucky night, Riley said, working to keep her voice calm. Inside, she was a zinging mass of nerves. She’d missed parts of the radio alert, but Dee hadn’t mentioned the one thing that stood out in Riley’s mind. Police believed the escaped convict to be heading south, toward the Florida Keys. That would bring him—or her—right through this corridor.

Prison breaks don’t happen often, but in every instance Riley could remember, the fleeing inmates had been male. No reason a woman couldn’t do it, though. It was an equal opportunity crime. Did Dee’s jacket hang so crookedly on her frame because it was ripped?

Or because one of its pockets held a weapon?

Riley swallowed and realized she was gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles stood out like luminescent pearls in the dim glow of the car’s interior. She forced herself to relax, to breathe in deep, honing in on the last hint of peppermint lingering in the air, drawing comfort from it.

Outside the windshield, fat white flakes began to fall.

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Gusts of snow-flurried wind shook the car and moaned past the door panels, pushing the little rental around like a playground bully. Dee pulled her knees up and huddled in the passenger seat, face hidden in shadow, while air from the heating vents battled against the invading cold, and lost.

Given a chance to do it over again, Riley would have chosen the airport Marriot and been snuggled under a fluffy duvet in front of a good movie by now. Instead, she gritted her teeth and steered carefully along the highway, hoping the rental car had a reliable braking system for icy pavement. Road conditions and visibility had turned treacherous in record time, and living in the Seattle area, Riley didn’t have a lot of experience driving in such a setting. But if there’s one thing her late husband, Jim, had hammered into her on the subject, it was to keep the gas tank above the halfway mark.

There wasn’t much to choose from along this rural stretch of road. Houses and business concerns lay scattered along its edge like beads on a very sparse necklace, but Riley pulled over when she saw a little two-pump gas station. As she rolled to a stop and cut the engine, Dee stretched, letting out an enormous yawn, and opened the door.

I got to powder my nose.

Out of the corner of her eye, Riley watched the woman start toward the shop entrance while she swiped her credit card and triggered the pump. She thought about what to do. She could drive off now, leaving Dee behind, and that might be the smart thing. But she had no actual reason to believe the woman was a danger to her, and if her story about the abusive boyfriend was true, Dee needed kindness and a helping hand. Abandonment was already an issue for her, and Riley didn’t want to pile on.

A bracing wind buffeted her, sending icy fingers down her back, and snow fell in a silent, steady onslaught as she finished filling the tank and screwed on the cap. The lighted sign above the shop door flickered out and darkness descended like a curtain, leaving only the dim illumination of residual lighting. A man in a red lumberjack parka exited and turned to lock up, his keys tinkling like sleigh bells across the snowy asphalt.

I’m closing up and heading home before this gets worse, he shouted. You should, too!

Riley ran across to meet him. "What about