Last Strike: A Anthony Carver Novel, #1

By J. E. Turnbo

What if the person you love the most hung in serious danger... because of a choice you made?

Detective Anthony Carver had it all. A beautiful wife, a successful career, and a friend who would do anything for him. With better than a ninety-five percent solve rate working as a Honolulu Police Detective, Carver and his partner Caleb "Stoney" Stonebridge face the unthinkable.

It took four years for a single decision to come back and hurt him in ways that will change the rest of his life. Will Carver and Stonebridge have what it takes to solve a case that sits on their very doorstep?

Last Strike is an emotional roller coaster grabbing you by the throat keeping you awake for hours until you read the last word.

Grab your copy today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.E. Turnbo
• Release date: May 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393569947

Book preview

Prologue

The Beginnings (19 Years Ago)

The torture would end in exactly seven days. Then again, that would be a lie. The end never fully reveals itself. Always out of reach as the hand of a falling person. At first, the firm handshake bids the sweet savor of hope – palm to palm but diminishes much too quickly. One cannot dispute Sir Isaac Newton. The dead weight supplemented with gravity is too much for the average Joe to bear. The grip weakens; palms slip to fingers; larger muscles give way to smaller ones. The mass below reels in its gravitational pull. Fingers give way to fingertips; the pull gathers strength as the grip goes away. Then nothing. The grip has left along with hope. The silence screams its wicked shriek as gravity brings the two together.

From the surface, torture is just like that. The harder you try to make the misery end, the further it falls, always just out of your reach. But instead of staying in one place, the torture travels from big city to big city. Of course, periodic stops in the quaint suburbs will always exist, where ranch-style homes and two-car garages kept safe by white picket fences. The American dream suffocated by a single choice. The aftershock leaving a trail of memories wanting; no NEEDING forgotten. But they will never be. The reminders will always remain. A song, a smell, the sound of someone’s voice, a gunshot; all take you back to the place you want to forget.

Not all torture is bad. Sometimes it’s a necessity; a fact of life never escaped while breathing God’s air. There’s a time when a happy family becomes unhappy. Their lives turned upside down. Loved ones, even the family pet variety, fade away when it’s their time, transitioning from this life to the next. Their grand exit leaves a level of persecution in its wake. Time is the only remedy, and for some, they never have enough time.

In the far, far depths of the Americas reside a breed of people who know no right or wrong; only what is. Some called them the wood hick. They know no time. They know no schedules, no rules - though many will argue – and they live by their own secret code. The sticks are their home, and outsiders are not welcome. Their morals, or the lack thereof, falls into the shadows of their behaviors, which the two often contradict each other. It is not their choice, but their instinct. Generation after generation adding yet another layer of protection to their DNA: Their taproot running deep analogous to their branchless family tree. Stopping the growth required a sharpened ax. A chainsaw could do, but the ax is symbolic: its primal nature is part of their code. Each swing cuts deeper in the veins of their existence. One day the proverbial tree will fall. Though considered work, but gratifying work to the wood hick. The effort brings tears. Sweat drips the drops of sorrow permeating the ground beneath. Someone must cut the tree at its lowest point - the base, then burned. It’s the only way. Reduce the generations to ashes coupled with distant memories. Each eventually fading away as smoke from a billowing fire.

This is where the misery caught up with torture. In the distance, deep from the depths inside the Appalachian woods, a shot echoed through the trees. A scream followed. The sounds complimented each other. They came and went in succession as two race cars drafting on a track. This day ordained itself. It was inevitable; the signs lingered as rotting flesh did under a hot sun. Fate destined life to be different now.

WHEN THE ECHO STOPPED, the birds sang their stupid little songs only stupid little birdies understood. The breeze raced through the trees pushing away all other sounds. In the distance a sob comes and goes as the gentle breeze shifts to a steady wind. The tree-tops whistle as the breeze picks up speed and changes direction. At times the sound mimicked the birdies. Any other day nature’s harmony soothed the soul, but today death was in the air, prowling the shadows ready like a warrior searching for battle; always watchful for the perfect time to strike.

The time had struck. Though the battle was self-inflicted. The subtle messages came as a whirlwind as of late. Every night for the last several weeks to be exact.

Each night, at two in the morning, sleep came. A deep alcohol induced sleep. But not the type one gets from Whiskey or Vodka. Honeyshine was the drink of the woods. The cornmash, honey, and water concoction was the lifeline for the bibbed overall folk. Somewhere in the roots, the drink proved its grip in planting, and growing the single-branched family tree. There was no hiding the fact, cousins loved cousins and brothers loved sisters.

Once the sleep began, the cajoling carried on. Every night, at the same time, the whispers repeated themselves like clockwork. Every syllable enunciated conjoined with the same pause between each word. Slow, controlled, and soft comparable to a hypnotist luring his subject into subconscious sleep.

You’re worthless.

Run to the woods.

You’re not worthy.

You’re a coward not a man.

Kill yourself.

The last whisper trailed off with a long tail meant to help it linger in the depths of the mind: To fester as a disease-ridden brain cell.

KILL YOURSEEEELLLLFFFFF...

Every night, at the same time the repetitions would start. Five in total:

You’re worthless.

Run to the woods.

You’re not worthy.

You’re a coward not a man.

KILL YOURSEEEELLLLFFFFF...

It was to be a premonition. A forewarning for what was coming. But the desired result happened sooner than expected. Only a coward gave in that quickly. The words should have taken more time to take root but didn’t. There needed to be time to seed, time to water, and time to grow. But the sign came early. He left the shotgun out. It’s never left out. NEVER. The sight brought relief and fear – of the unknown. It was time, and it happened when it needed to. And it happened just after the thumb drew back the double hammers and the index finger applied the perfect pressure as its fury released.

Part I - Missing

Chapter 1

Anthony Carver stood over the counter; eyes shifting back and forth between the pool of blood and the knife in his hand. His disbelief, indescribable. He was beside himself. Not once in his three plus decades of adulthood had he been so careless. The knife slid through the flesh like butter. An inch higher, with more pressure, and the finger would be gone. No more trigger finger. The blood seeped through the separated skin on his finger the length of the digit. More annoyed than in pain, he stood hypnotized by the small circle of blood pooling on the counter.

The chef’s knife was too big for the job, he thought.

He grabbed it out of convenience. It was right there looking harmless enough.

Every Sunday evening brought the same ritual – minus the lopping off his finger of course. He’d make a turkey sandwich on sourdough bread, then march off to his favorite chair. The process was borderline ritualistic. Maybe more compulsive than anything – his OCD surfacing as it often does.

Everything had to be perfect. Alani often reaffirmed his compulsive tendencies. How did she put it? The irresistible urge for perfection coupled with the inability to...go with the flow, he said under his breath nodding.

His answer was always the same, Everything has its place.

He’d lay out one piece of bread, then cut five slices of cold turkey cuts. Top with lettuce, tomato and mayo, and add a squirt of mustard positioning the second piece of bread lining it up perfectly with everything underneath. He’d finished the job with a precision cut through the center starting from one corner and finishing on the opposite end. With his plate and Cherry Coke in hand, he’d head for the recliner.

Tonight, was different. His finger throbbed as the message reached his brain, This shit hurts!

From the living room he heard a voice, Here’s what’s next on TBN.

The voice gave him a sense of purpose, a reason for this predicament. He reached for a paper towel and wrapped his finger. No reason to get blood everywhere. The last thing he needed was blood stains making the house resemble a crime scene. Not to mention the furniture. When Alani returned home, she’d expect answers. Answers to questions he didn’t want to own up to.

I was careless babe, he’d say.

She’d fire back her patented eye roll and shoot him that sideways smile making his heart melt.

He clenched his fist holding the paper towel in place. The crimson stain grew bigger and brighter soaking through the cheap paper as the knife made a statement, I got you now asshole. His blood kept coming. The quicker picker upper was getting a run for its money, he thought. He pressed towards the living room and grabbed the remote and paused the TV.

A man dressed in a cheap suit stood in front of a digital backdrop frozen in time mid-sentence. He had an ominous appearance. His squinty eyes mirrored someone possessed. The sight sent a chill the length of Carver’s spine. He tossed the remote heading towards the bathroom in search of something to kill a potential infection.

The Band-Aids were in the pantry. He looked at the paper towel. The crimson stain didn’t look bigger, but the end of the soaked towel had been deceiving. He unwound the makeshift tourniquet. Will I need stitches? It was possible. The cut was deep and bled as if he cut an artery. He wanted; no, he needed Alani at his side. He missed her warm breath on his neck when she stood behind him watching him shave. But the business trips were more frequent pressing him back to bachelorhood more than he liked. His detective mind kicked in when he considered how often she left. A flash thought of infidelity entered and left at the same speed: Guilty until proven innocent. He pushed the thought back in the depths of his mind glancing at the gaping wound, and back at the Band-Aide box. Not gonna work. He fumbled through the first aide box until he found what he was looking for.

He made his way to the recliner. Gauze and medical tape mummified his index finger making it three times its normal size. At least it functioned, even if in part. He sat back and offered the TV a nose-wrinkling grin. The man waited on him with the same ominous smile.

Technology made his life easier. The remotes pause button saved his ass more than once. Hell, even recording TV on his DVR made nighttime viewing more enjoyable. He never missed Sunday night TV. The sandwich, the Cherry Coke, and his chair made the evening. He’d watch TV until he passed out. Alani, the woman of his dreams, and his better half for twelve years, thought he was crazy. But she’s not here to tease him; no sarcastic commentary to deal with. Hell, I could even sit here naked if I wanted – bare ass to leather. He chuckled.

Carver grew up in the typical twentieth-century American home. Both parents worked. They bought a ranch house with a white picket. Well, more like a rusted chain-link fence.

The fence kept little Tony Carver and Dammit the dog contained when the two stayed home alone. It worked even better when the grown-ups wanted them out of their hair.

Dammit was a fun dog. Yet, little Tony felt funny calling Dammit around mom and dad. Anthony Carver Sr. had a sense of humor. He thought naming the family Rott, Dammit a real riot.

Dammit, get over here, Anthony Sr. yelled from the front stoop. But the joke was on him and everyone saw it except for him. It made everyone within earshot uncomfortable. Yeah, they’d give the courtesy laugh with the fake smiles and shifting eyes at one another, but no one ever called the dog except for his dad.

Funny how life works.

His parents rarely attended church. Holidays and friendly invites made up the extent of their desire to fill the Holy Spirit. They never wanted to hurt anyone’s feelings and played nice during their invites. They’d go with gleaming smiles and half opened ears. Neither of them liked a confrontation. Instead, they’d sit through the message and leave with empty promises of coming back.

Carver was different. He learned early on his sanity depended on his faith. Later, life and Law Enforcement would test him. Questions would arise and faith gave him the answers he needed. The early years with his grandparents laid the foundation. A foundation of faith built on every Sunday during the church service.

He hated sitting still but managed with a forced reluctance only a parent appreciated – or in this case, a grandparent.

Every Sunday they’d sing the traditional hymns from the ole tattered books tucked behind the wooden pews. Amazing Grace and Lift High The Cross were congregational favorites. He’d look up at granddad singing at the top of his lungs, while granddad looked down at little Tony Carver with the biggest smile. It made him feel good inside.

The worship leader sang plenty of songs, but these two were granddads most loved. He explored the idea of asking why he loved them. But granddad said, ‘Sometimes things are better left to your imagination Tony.’

Later in life his imagination took a blow keeping his creativity at bay. At sixteen he had a girlfriend with big boobs. Clothed they were mountains. But his imagination deceived him. When the shirt came off, the truth stared back through perky A-cup breasts.

Sorry, it’s a water-filled bra, Sally Singleton said blushing.

Talk about false advertisement!

Carver stopped going to church before college. Since then, he found serenity in attending church from the comfort of his chair, including his favorite sandwich and beverage adding to his experience.

He pulled hard on the recliner lever and watched the slow ascent as his feet moved outward. He looked at his elevated legs, wiggled his seat, smiled, and hit the play button. Pastor Bradley paraded into view from stage right. The cameraman kept the mega-pastor center screen; arms dangling at his sides opposite his steps. He looked more of a military man marching to his own cadence.

Bradley waved and smiled as he strolled to the lectern. Of course, he was all smiles, Carver thought. I’d be all smiles too if I was worth more than forty million. The mega-pastor waved at the tens of thousands of people in the auditorium, and the hundreds of thousands, including Carver, watching on TV.

Thank you and may you always stay blessed, the well-dressed pastor said to his congregation. His tailored suit shined as his polished shoes did. Each reflected the lights from the stage. His straight and too white to be normal teeth reflected the spotlight in front. The camera zoomed and Carver leaned in as if tied together with a tether.

Twenty minutes into the broadcast the camera panned the auditorium. Carver thought the producers did this showing how drawn-in Bradley’s sheep were. Everyone in the audience looked the same: general types. Typical Americans coming together absorbing everything their pastor said. But someone steals Carver’s attention. She looks familiar.

He can’t take his eyes off the screen. Fumbling for the remote, he knocked over his Cherry Coke, and lost the remote between the cushion until it rested on the recliner lever. He pulled it out like Quick-Draw McGraw and aimed the remote towards the TV. He jammed his thumb on the pause button and leaned forward rewinding the recording.

There she was. Unlike the ominous devil figure left on the screen after his first pause button episode, she radiated confidence and beauty. He tried placing her but couldn’t. How often do you see a stunning blond on church TV? She was gorgeous, and her identity sat on the tip of his tongue.

Maybe a celebrity? Not an A-list, but I’ve seen that face.

He shrugged a who really gives a shit gesture and pressed play continuing the sermon.

Carver watched until the credits rolled through. His mind wandered as it often does. An idle mind can be trouble, granddad said – one of his many proverbs. Tonight, his mind kept drifting towards work no matter how hard he tried to fight it. Then his thoughts rested on something. In a flash of detective insight, it came to him why he tried to slice off his finger. He remembered a conversation he accidentally heard earlier that afternoon. Well, maybe not so much accidental.

The Arch Café was his Sunday hangout, and The Caveman Bowl was his usual. Some people get their kicks off people watching, he likes to people listen. When out, and it didn’t matter where, he listened to the people around him. It kept his observation skills sharp and his mind always thinking. (Not always a good thing for the compulsive, controlling type.)

He had a favorite booth in the back corner. When he sat with his back to the wall, he had a clear view of the entire dining room. Cliché, yes, but seeing everything coming at him allowed a split-second advanced warning.

Carver set his tray on the table and slid in the booth. His pants slid across the smooth leather seat as he smiled remembering his days working uniform. There’s a well-known secret everyone in patrol adhered to, which included detailing the back seat of the squad cars.

When a bad guy ran his mouth in the backseat of his car, he’d shut them up with a few slight turns of the wheel. On more than one occasion Carver transported an arrestee with an opinion. If they continued running their mouths, he’d jerk the wheel a hard left and another hard right. His passenger slid across the backseat as if they skated on ice. And if they had more to say, he’d bounce their head off the plastic divider with a brake check. Only once in his uniform career did he come close to stopping the car and beating the guy in his back seat. But by the second round of sliding and face plants, even the dumbest blockhead reconsidered. The good ole days.

Carver lined his utensils, though plastic, he still had the same ritual. Each had its place: fork to the outside, and knife to the inside. Both centered on top of the napkin.

Two middle-aged women walked past and sat in the booth in front of him. He watched a couple nameless teams from the mainland playing basketball on the TV in front of him. He couldn’t remember who, but it didn’t matter. But it mattered. It’s about the details. He chastised himself for not paying attention to every detail. The ball game offered him a place to rest his eyes and the conversation in front was a place to rest his ears.

The women gossiped over the monotony in their lives. Johnny doesn’t take out the trash, and Bobby doesn’t mow the lawn enough.

After more pointless banter, the one closest to him said, My snake is growing like crazy and I don’t know why. She continued, I took it to the vet and dropped this extra-large snake on the table. I explained my problem. The vet asked if it sleeps in bed with me. I told him yes. Then I put it back in the cage before I leave the house.

Carver smiled while trying to imagine the look on her friend’s face.

After a moment of silence, she continued. The vet looked at me and said, ‘Well the snake is growing because it will eat you. This is what they do in the wild.’ My jaw hit the ground, and I walked out the room and left the snake on the table.

Whatever the two talked about from there was a mystery. Even he, the lead Detective on the Honolulu Criminal Investigation Division sat speechless. At times there are things people say, so off-the-wall, so crazy that no matter how hard you try, you can’t get it out of your head.

He leaned back in his recliner closing his eyes. He fancied the freedom of a night off. Sundays are slower than other days of the week, at least for homicide. Even the bad guys need to take a breather, he’d tell Alani. But she wasn’t there to tell.

As a well renowned Anthropologist, Alani Carver spent a couple weeks every year on the road at conferences. The first one of the year lasted longer than the second, lasting five days. Whatever, Anthony wondered, could they meet about for five days surpassed his detective mind.

The two loved each other and made sure everyone knew it. Though he didn’t look forward to the separations, no matter how brief or how long, he enjoyed his time alone when the time came. If he had his way, he’d have her at his side, but the empty house and the night alone had been what he needed.

His mind trailed off with thoughts of her beautiful smile until falling asleep in the recliner. He lingered in the land of happy thoughts and peaceful sleep until he woke himself up snoring.

Carver looked around gathering his bearings and glanced at his watch. Eleven fifty. His finger throbbed and hurt in ways he hadn’t felt in some time. Every heartbeat pounded pressure to his finger as if someone pounded it with a hammer. The TV droned in front of him and his plate sat on his lap. A small corner of his sandwich sat alone in the middle of the plate. He wanted to eat it. But a vibration came from his pants pocket redirecting his attention. He remembered making his sandwich and tucking his phone in his pocket.

Alani hadn’t called yet, he thought as he leaned over onto his left butt cheek. He slid his hand into the pocket. It took a couple tries. Fat ass crossed his mind as he fumbled around playing pocket pool. He pulled his hand out and looked at the home screen. Alani, he said with a smile. He pressed the green hand receiver icon and said, Hey babe how are you doing? The silence on the other end was deafening. Hello, he said again with a questioning tone.

After another moment of silence, he heard a throat clear. Anthony, Alani said, I won’t be coming home.

Click.

The phone went dead. He looked at the home screen and read, Call ended eleven seconds.

2.

The room went quiet. The TV offered subliminal diversion as the dancing shadows flickered in the background. Carver’s eyes affixed to his phone screen. He watched the back-lighting fade from bright to dim, then to black. A face came into view on his blank phone screen. It looked confused, then distressed. Anxiety soon followed. The face, distorted from the lamp’s light over his left shoulder, showed a man with a furrowed brow over top curled down lips. His head cocked to the left, he looked at the black phone screen with a bewildered stare. It took a moment for him to realize the reflection was his staring back from the blank screen.

He pressed the home button with his left hand and his iPhone came to life. Any other time the picture would’ve made him smile. A constant reminder that, no matter how things were going, life outside of work was good. The picture was of him and Alani on their honeymoon. It brought good memories and better feelings. Tonight, was a different story.

He swiped his thumb across the slide to unlock icon. Four taps later he navigated his way through the passcode and studied the red number one on the phone icon. He tapped it once and watched the screen switch to call history. Something caught his attention: the number of missed calls. A two in parentheses had been next to Alani’s name. How did I miss two calls from her? One missed, and the second lasted eleven seconds. He pressed her name, and the phone dialed her number.

For a brief moment, the nervous husband suppressed the instinctive enforcer that made him the Officer, and now the Detective he is. It surprised him how quick the switch came to. He was taking charge, as his years of Police training had taught him, but this was different – it hit closer to home. Not on his front porch close, but right in his lap close.

His heartbeat thumped in his neck. The carotid artery pulsed with every racing heartbeat. A bead of sweat ran the length of his forehead coming to a stop on the tip of his nose. It balanced there as a high-wire walker trying to keep from falling. Another started at his hairline and traveled the length of his right cheek. His nerves fluttered. Butterflies danced their choppy zigging and zagging in his stomach. He hoped, no he prayed the dropped call was accidental. Anything to ease the pain and reality of what the call meant. But something in his gut told him otherwise. Police intuition sometimes lingered similar to a bad fart. It was the only part of the enforcer in him that bothered putting up a fight.

His eyes rested on the TV while the phone rang. A thousand thoughts bounced around in his head in no specific order, like that old pong video game. Each thought came and went sounding nothing short of a thousand TV’s playing different shows simultaneously. Then he realized the sounds weren’t in his head. They came from somewhere in the house, but from a different room. Somewhere from behind and the length of the hall.

He lowered the phone from his ear and looked at the screen. It rang. Even away from his ear he heard the drone of the electric echo. No voicemail? he said. Why wasn’t her phone going to voicemail? He tried counting the rings in his head. Ten. Her voicemail should have picked up after the fourth, he said to the screen.

The hushed tones and lazy s’s that trailed off from the voices in the other room plucked at his attention like a chicken eating in an open field. The phone rang near his right ear, and the mumbled voices made their way into his left. Or maybe his focus switched making the voices seem louder. He tapped the red phone icon and ended the call.

He noticed his wrapped finger, forgetting about it until now. The sight brought back the pulsing pain.

He rocked forward. The extended recliner forced him back. Under different circumstances he’d consider the effort comical. His back fell into the cushion behind him. Again, fat ass crossed his mind.

He grabbed each of the chair’s arms, pinched the leather with his left, and tried to with the right. The over-sized wrapped finger, and phone wouldn’t allow it. He looked at the phone, then at his finger and said, Stupid. He clenched his left fist gathering strength and momentum while forcing his legs towards the floor. The unified effort closed the recliner as the springs creaked under him. At the same time the lever lurched forward beside him while the mechanism slammed shut. The sound echoed through the room as the leg rest locked and the spring caught.

This was when the remote fell from his lap to between the cushion and the arm. He grabbed it and took aim turning off the TV. The thousands of voices turned into one. But where was it coming from?

He headed towards the hallway following the sounds coming from - My home office? His office sat halfway past the hall between the master and spare bedrooms, but on the opposite side. The closer he stepped the louder the voices. He couldn’t make out any words. They were no longer hushed tones with trailing s’s. The voices were loud and distorted, the sound penetrating crackling speakers.

He paused outside the closed door. His right ear an inch off the middle panel. The faint smell of oak seeped from the door soothed him as a breath of fresh air. He listened waiting for movement to go with the voice.

Nothing. Was my office TV on this whole time?

Carver’s heart raced as the adrenaline rushed through his veins. He knew this feeling, and sometimes welcomed it, but never under his own roof. Working the streets, both in uniform and as a detective, he’d kick in a few doors. The adrenaline dump was borderline addicting. He loved being on point; the first guy in the door. Call him stupid or an adrenaline junky. More of the latter than former, but it kept him sharp. And sharp cops stay alive.

One...two...three... he counted in his head. On three he twists the knob leading with his shoulder until the door hit the wall behind it. He scanned the room. Nothing out of place, but the TV was on. His eyes fixed on the thirty-two-inch flat screen sitting opposite of his desk. He kept it for background noise when he worked, and for the occasional basketball game. Or whatever in-season sports were on when he worked at home.

The TV screen appeared abnormal. White, black, and gray specks riddled the screen. Not on the screen, but in the screen. Growing up, he remembered asking mom and dad why the TV looked funny at night. They called it white noise. Back before the big radar satellite dishes that took up half the yard existed, there was regular TV. Then cable moved on scene. After midnight, and sometimes later, the networks shut down and turned off the channel. Some called it white noise. No matter what you called it, it always sounded the same.

Carver realized the voices stopped before he entered the room. The static covered the screen. No faces and no picture. He walked towards the small one-leveled entertainment center and saw the remote sitting on top of the TV. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached out to grab it when the static got louder. Carver stopped, his eyes bouncing from the TV to the left and the right of the room. A faint voice came from somewhere.

Is that from inside the TV?

He knelt onto his knees and stared at the screen. Is that a face?

He focused on the center of the screen. It is a face mixed with the static.

He rocked his knees forward inching him closer to the TV. His heartbeat through his chest and felt a trickle of sweat slide from his forehead.

The static stopped, and a voice twice as loud bellowed through the TV speakers. Carver rocked backward knocking him onto his backside.

Detective Anthony Carver. Calling Detective Anthony Carver of the Criminal Investigations Division.

The face seemed to come to life on the screen. The white, black, and gray static moved to the rear as the face bobbled and rotated forward. It looked cartoonish, or more of a clown face, but the smile looked straight from a horror movie.

Helloooow. Anthony, are you out there? Then a monetary pause. Oh, there you are.

Carver looked around never taking his eyes off the screen. He checked the room with his peripheral vision. The face moved forward now taking up the entire thirty-two inches.

You. Are. A. Fucking. Asssss. Hoooole! I. Have. Your. Wife. And. An old friend says...come and find her if you dare.

The eyes now darted from left to right as its smile widened.

But before you do, there will be a present for you a little later. And, by the way, don’t waste your wife’s precious and VERY limited time figuring out how I created all this...this amusement.

Amusement, Carver mouthed, You think this is amusing?

Because I covered my tracks very well DE...TECT...IVE. I will see you, and your wife, on the other side. Toodles.

The head bobbed and danced backward as it laughed until disappearing in the distance. The static returned to its previous level. Carver tried replaying every word of the verbal vomit the shit-bag psycho spewed from the clown face. But he couldn’t focus. His finger throbbed again.

He looked towards his knuckles, which were white. His fingers balled up into a fist as every muscle in his body tensed. He sat there in disbelief trying to relax.

His eyes tracked up towards the TV. They stopped at the DVD player’s power light. The red light stood out against the black DVD player as the remote sat in front of the player upside down parallel to the player. The buttons lay faced down. He leaned in noticing something on the back of the remote. He leaned in unbelieving what he saw. His jaw and heart dropped as his body turned cold. The remote had writing on the back. The handwritten letters appeared as if written in dried blood.

They read: DON’T BOTHER.

3.

Somewhere near the center of the North Pacific, five thousand miles East of China and three thousand miles West of Mexico, there’s an island thousands of people consider a vacationer's paradise. But to the residents of Honolulu, Hawaii, it’s home.

Its weather hovers over perfection three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Add the prolific ocean views (not to mention the surrounding mountains), and it’s easy to see why people move there. At night, and during the winter months, the lows hover in the mid-sixties and the highs in the upper eighties. Occasionally a tropical storm keeps the residents on their toes - and not to mention a rare volcano eruption, but overall, the tropical weather means fewer clothes for the gorgeous island women. And Caleb Stoney Stonebridge loves the half-dressed woman of Hawaii.

Talk to him long enough, if you can get a word in, and he’ll tell you leaving Los Angeles was the best thing he’d done. The personalities, the smog, the weather, the congestion, the speed, and the people, in general, resembled something from a sci-fi movie riddled with b-rated actors. He’s not shy, nor does he have a tactful bone in his body. And if you ask his opinion, you’d get it with nothing resembling a filter.

For the last five years, it’s been the sun, beaches, mountains, islands, and the best-looking women on the planet. Each morsel of the islands’ seductive delicacies purges the memory of his past life. Add the hospitality, and it’s easy to forget the rest of the world. Therefore, few people who live on the Island are natural born natives. But the culture becomes a part of everyone after spending time there. Even the rudest folk by nature, (those from the East Coast with their biased superiority), become hospitable over time. Ask any of them, and they’ll refuse to admit it. The mere contemplation of domestication is nothing short of telling a Pittsburgher they’re from the Midwest. Those words brought a beatin’.

Stoney, a detective by trade, but a moonlighting internet geek by desire thrives on little sleep. I’ll sleep when I’m dead, often comes from his lips. Well, to be more exact, I’ll sleep when I’m dead Mutha Fuckaaaa. You can take the man out of the ghetto, but you can’t take the ghetto out of the man.

When the gadget talk started, you’d better find an escape plan. Bargaining your way out of the conversation had priority. Once you’re stuck, getting out was next to impossible, at least until Stoney finished. The rookie detectives became the sacrificial lambs. They’d nod and pretend interest with their Oh shit what did I get into? smiles. But life revolved around technology when not playing detective, bringing the two together at every chance.

Hey Stoney, you ever considered becoming converting into a mime? one of the detectives bellowed from the crowd. Go join the lab rats, another joked.

In college, he made academics a priority. Unlike the typical male college freshman who let his little head focus on getting laid and drunk, and not always in that order, his big head ran the show. He’d take every technology class he had time for. He had goals.

It began the summer after his senior year of high school. Someone hacked his email and planted a Trojan Horse in an email. During those days’ viruses (and internet scams), were in their infancy. The email had a short link to a website. He thought about its sender - Steve from India - for several seconds and clicked on the link.

A small box with a blue background and red lettering popped in the bottom right-hand corner asking, Virus Protection, Is Your Computer At Risk?

Before he had time to close the window, or click Check Now, other windows followed. Ten, twelve new pop-ups opened in succession. As each new window freed itself from the grasps of the virus, Stoney watched in awe as his screen filled with pop-ups. When his computer froze, he panicked. Nothing moved. Keys stopped working no matter how hard he tapped them.

Once the reality set in, he sat there in a haze hovering over that narrow ravine between curiosity and anger. It didn’t take anger long to push past curiosity. He slammed the keys: Ctrl+Alt+Del, in that order. Nothing! Tunnel vision came. His body sat motionless as he stared at the screen. Thoughts of what to do escaped him. Then an inkling surfaced. When all else fails, unplug the power cord. It was next on his troubleshooting list. He needed to free whatever electronic conundrum defending its death-grip on his machine. So, he pulled the plug and waited three minutes before inserting the male end into the back of the tower. Who came up with the three-minute rule?

He shoved the power cord back into the tower, took a deep breath and pressed the power button. Nothing – again. No metallic clicks, or chimes, or spinning fan associated with rebooting a computer.

The Trojan Horse fried his hard drive.

At the time the internet users had a hard time keeping up with internet trolls, planting chaos in unsuspecting lives. Looking back, this had been what drove him towards law enforcement. The fact remained they took something from him - a surprise attack. He glared; eyes pressed forward looking through the screen imagined the wrongdoer. In an afterthought, Stoney admitted to the warning in the form of spam email. Open me but pay the consequences.

Everything digital important to him: Games, term papers worthy of keeping – you never know when you’ll need them in college, and letters to his girlfriends... lost. He saved the good ones. I’d use them again, he thought. Of course, the names changed, but the steamy lines that all but undressed its reader stayed.

That summer he took a job delivering pizzas. He needed money for a new computer. What better way to get fast cash as a teenager than delivering pizza pies? After three weeks of hustling, he earned enough to buy a new laptop, then quit, and locked himself in his room. Everything else in his life ceased. Girls, sports, movies, and hangin’ out stopped like a lifelong smoker quitting cold turkey. He had one goal: stay a step ahead of the criminals using cyberspace to ruin people’s lives.

4.

Twenty-two feet to his rear, and ten feet to his right lay where his focus should be. But as he lies in bed, the dim light from the hallway gave off a gray hue of shadows that called him. At the computer is where he felt at home – the most productive. The light beckoned him. It was as luring as a flirtatious smile from a beautiful woman saying, Come to me.

She’d wait, he thought. He glanced over his shoulder down the hall and replayed the movie in his mind. The one of how she looked after he got up out of bed, sprawled in the middle of the bed on her belly, both legs spread to a corner. The tan comforter covered her low back resting on her body to the middle of her calves. Her silky skin ran the length of her back to her hairline. The tight curls in her hair, separated at the center of her head, resting on each shoulder. Stoney watched for a moment, her hands tucked and folded under the pillow. She looked safe and at peace. The site stayed with him. A picture burnt deep in the memory banks of his mind. A lazy smile extended the length of his lips. Only be a second.

He turned back towards the screen, letting his fingers resume their tapping, moving with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine, looking and avoiding. Looking for hacks and avoiding the accompanying rabbit hole the internet brought along like a long-lost friend.

The Worldwide Web is the information superhighway, but with it lurks everything a heart desires. A boogieman crouched in the shadows waiting for the perfect time to strike. A link here, a pop-up window there; all on the surface harmless, but malignant once it sinks its deadly claws in you. The minutes turn into an hour. Harmless at first, but a single hour turns into several. Time passes and yet, another day lost.

What are you doing in here Detective? the voluptuous brunette whispered grabbing Stoney’s shoulders.

A little this, a little that. Ya’ know, internet stuff.

"Some fun you are! You got a naked woman in your apartment and you’re out here typing away on your computer. Tap. Tap. Tap, she said with half sarcasm and half remorse. I should’ve stayed in that comfortable over-sized bed, she whimpered standing up. You have fun with your internet stuff."

I’ll head back to bed in a minute. I had an idea and needed to check on a couple of things. No reason to chance losing it. Ya know, strike while the irons’ hot.

You’re losing more than an idea if you don’t get back to bed, she said with a hint of agitation. I’m sure it’s good enough. Just come back to bed.

Good enough doesn’t exist, Stoney said. You have to keep bangin’ out ideas... data... whatever. The harder you work the bigger the payoff. It’s the law of the universe. Ideas are everywhere. All you have to do is pluck them from the air. That’s if you know how to make the magic happen. His arms flailed in crazy and uneven circles never taking his eyes off the flat screen in front of him.

The curvaceous brunette with the hour-glassed body leaned over his right shoulder and whispered in his ear.

He paused and listened. What makes a man tick? Stoney repeated. Well, ask a hundred guys and they’ll give you a hundred different answers. I can tell you what makes me tick, he said pecking at the keys on his keyboard.

Tell me, she murmured.

Her warm breath on his neck froze his nimble fingers. He paused. His cupped fingers hovered over the keyboard as a crooked smile pierces his lips. The faint odor of sex and Chloe perfume brought him back from his momentary bout of deep thought. He sat up and realized she set her enormous breasts on his upper back. The corners of his mouth raised into a full smile.

Wait! Hold on for a second, he said pushing away from the desk and spun his chair a hundred and eighty degrees. He looked up at her and grabbed the back of her neck. Maybe this can wait, he said pulling her head towards his. He felt her hot breath on his face.

The two kissed. Their body temperatures climbed. The blood flowed downward.

You know, there are some ruthless internet hacks out..., Stoney moaned.

Shut up.

I could smell an Internet Hack a mile away!

Shut up. I don’t like computers, she said squeezing his cheeks kissing him harder.

Their lips pressed together locked in passion. She pushed him into the chair moving them both backward. The wheels rolled as the chair hit the desk with a loud thump. The force surprised them both. Above the desk, a wooden shelf sat on metal frames fastened to the wall with long screws. Books ran the length of it. Most stacked-on end, while others stacked on top of the ones on end. The first book fell on its side. Another fell along with the next three, starting a domino effect.

The two kissed as their hands groped each other.

Stoney lost in the moment didn’t save his work. The first book started the downward cascade of paper and binding as it slammed onto his keyboard closing everything he had open. A second book followed with a third teetering on the edge of the shelf until it too fell. Each of the three books hit in different spots of his keyboard. After the third book hit, his monitor blipped and popped severing power somewhere within it circuitry. His research erased and sent to cyberspace heaven, and little did Caleb Stoney Stonebridge know his love session would end before it should.

The voluptuous brunette with the hour-glass figure threaded her legs through each of the arms of his chair, straddled him, and kissed his hard enough to suck off his lips. His busy hands caressed the length of her back starting at her shoulders. They slid down her skin together, first to her mid-back, stopping at her cheeks. He squeezed each of them. First individually, the left one adding the right one, then at the same time. She sat up sensing the pressure from his hands. Stoney thought she’d have marks from how hard he squeezed. Her butt resembled two giant marshmallows. He considered smiling at the thought but didn’t.

He reached around the front of her wanting to set himself free. The sudden rush of blood made him uncomfortable the way they sat in the chair. Before little Stoney found daylight, the cell phone next to the keyboard behind him rang.

The voluptuous brunette with the hour-glass figure grabbed his hand as he inched it toward the ringing phone. She tried everything she could to distract him, but the phone tugged at his subconscious. He broke his hand free and reached back for the phone.

Let it go to voicemail, she whispered nibbling on his ear.

He tucked his ear to his shoulder and slapped her bare butt, You’re such a bad little vixen. Give me a second.

Stoney pulled the phone around and peaked at the home screen as she kissed him on the neck. Once the blood flow returned to the head on his shoulders, Stoney, shocked by the name on the display, tried pulling away from her.

He pushed her away. I’m taking this.

Stoney tapped the phone screen and placed his hand over it. You need to get off! I have to take this call alone.

From the depths of the airwaves, from a voice in the phone, the two heard, Get that shit in your pants and answer the fucking phone!

5.

"D on’t say anything stupid Stoney. Just listen."

The growl from his phone resembled a wild animal. He pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at the screen. In big white letters, Carver’s name ran the length of the top of his phone, but the voice on the other end didn’t sound right.

Stoney had grown accustomed to the Sunday evening calls, and at times he enjoyed them. Often the phone buzzed a little after eleven, which was why Stoney kept his phone close by. It became a Sunday ritual. Carver watched his favorite TV pastor and called ten minutes after the credits rolled. He’d spoke of the sermon spreading the good news - in his own subtle way of course.

Most nights they’d spend a couple minutes talking over the message. But as the uncomfortable silence weaved its way into the conversation, they’d switch back to police stuff. All their conversations were that way, eventually coming full circle back to police stuff. Call it an unspoken safety net; a means to the end of having something to talk about. Lord knows dumb people will continue doing what they do opening the door for cop talk. But something was different this time. His gravelly and strained voice made his neck hairs stand on end.

Stoney waved his arm at the voluptuous brunette with the hour-glass figure shooing her into the hallway. She wiggled her way out of the chair and stood in front of him, arms folded across her chest with each breast perched on her forearms. Stoney had a flashback of his baseball days. His bench coach standing in the dugout with his arms on the fence; chin rested on his forearms focused on the game. But she didn’t look at him as a baseball coach. She had another ballgame in mind, but there were no more rounding the bases tonight. The look on her face made it a silent statement.

He flicked the back of his hand at her.

She turned and stomped the length of the hall. He stared as she walked away. He couldn’t help it. Her naked body tipped an easy nine on a scale of one to ten. For a moment Stoney considered bumping her to a nine point five. I’m listening, he said into the phone.

Is she out of the room?

Yes. How’d he know?

Someone has Alani.

What? What do you mean?

Some shitbag said he has Alani.

Wait, how? I thought she was at a-

No details over the phone, Carver said. Just get here!

Did you call it in?

I told you no details over the phone.

Uh, okay, Stoney said inquisitively.

How long?

The inflection in the How long? and the speed the words rolled off his tongue were both familiar and alarming. Carver was a calm man and always in control of his emotions, but more than he cared to admit, life and people tested his patience. His voice deepened, and he spoke faster. The man of few words transformed into a man with much to say. And he did before the other person said a word edgewise. When it surfaced, it appeared on the other end of an interrogation. Not tonight. Tonight, Stoney experienced it firsthand, on the receiving end.

In the past, Carver sabotaged Stoney’s hook ups, but this sounded too real. In the past, he’d gone as far as planting a remote-controlled fart machine in his apartment. Carver sat in his car watching for Stoney and his date to arrive. He’d give it five minutes before going upstairs and standing outside the door. At random, he’d hit the remote to let out a Silent But Deadly that’ll make Elizabeth Taylor roll in her grave.

After the You stink, comments commenced, he’d hit the remote one last time and headed downstairs towards his car. Minutes later the clueless date was standing on the front stoop. Each of the three dates he sabotaged looked the same: hands on their hips shaking their heads waiting for a cab. Later he’d fess up to his shenanigans. A couple friendly shoulder punches later, they’d laugh it off. But if tonight wasn’t real, it would be the last time he’d believe anything his partner of five years said.

Stoney glanced at the clock on the wall and said, I can be there in fifteen minutes.

Okay, I need you here in ten. The rasp in Carver’s voice made him sound nothing short of a lifelong smoker with throat cancer and pissed about the whole situation. Come around back and bring your secret agent shit too. I need to clear this house.

You mean my bug-out bag?

Whatever you call it, just bring it. The unrest in his voice spoke louder than the words.

Stoney had questions, but they’d have to wait. Carver broke the silence and disconnected the call. The last forty-five seconds may have been the most confusing lapse of time in Stoney’s adult life. They left him speechless for a moment. The woman in the other room no longer existed, and the realization everything he worked on for the last hour disappeared hadn’t occurred to him. Other thoughts occupied his mind.

He set the phone down on the desk and stared at the