Kill the Witness

By Joe McCormick

The crime boss had a chilling look in his eye as he spoke. “There had better not be any slip-ups this time, he said. Make sure it’s a clean job, not a vestige of evidence left. I don’t care if you use quicklime or a wood chipper…leave nothing that can be traced back to us!”

With these orders a manhunt was set in motion that led from the bayous of the Gulf Coast to the river bottoms of West Tennessee. With no clue of why they are being hunted by the Southern Mafia, software developer James Lyman and his wife Jane survive by using their knowledge of wilderness terrain to hold off their pursuers until answers can be found.
This is a story of ordinary people finding extraordinary faith and strength in a time of crisis to overcome seemingly insurmountable difficulties.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365377389

Book preview

Kill the Witness

Kill the Witness

By Joe McCormick

Copyright © 2016 By Joe McCormick.  All rights reserved

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

Cover design and cover art: Joe McCormick

Publisher: Big Springs Press, Pinson TN 38366

Copy Editor: Cindy Rubin

Production Editor: Missy Frazier

ISBN:  978-1-365-37738-9

First Printing 2016

1.   Fiction   2. Mystery   3. Christian   4. Romance

www. JoeMcCormickCountry.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

To John McKenzie,

who made it all work

Chapter 1

What rubbish! Lyman fumed, flinging the paperback novel he had been reading against the wall. He grimaced at the lukewarm cup of coffee he held in his hand. It doesn’t matter what you read these days – western, mystery, romance, adventure… all it’s about anymore is sex!

Lyman levered his slim frame off the sofa and stalked over to stare morosely through the window at the rain that had been falling steadily all day. It was Sunday afternoon, a gray, rainy day in Bayou La Batre. In Lyman’s upper middle income neighborhood, nothing moved in the quiet streets or on the manicured lawns. Spanish moss hung in long, heavy masses from the live oak tree in front, streaming rivulets of rain. Even the brilliance of the fall-blooming azaleas was muted and washed out by the downpour. It was the kind of day made especially for a good book, a cup of coffee and the couch. If there were any good books. Lyman shook his head in disgust.

Jane was in the study, dusting the furniture, making good use of the hour before her ladies’ meeting at the church. Speaking over his shoulder, Lyman raised his voice enough to be sure she could hear his complaint. Complaining, he’d always thought, was like the proverbial tree falling in the forest. It was no good unless there was someone there to hear it.

You know, he said, I’ve read all the good authors a dozen times. I’d like to find something new that wasn’t so trashy."

Jane rolled her eyes at the ceiling. She’d heard it all before. What I get for being in the forest, she thought, smiling at her little inside joke. But she wasn’t in a mood to listen to the rest. Well, honey, she interrupted sweetly, if you can’t find a book that meets your exacting standards, why don’t you just write your own?

What an unsympathetic smart aleck she could be at times. He opened his mouth to reply in kind, but her words stuck in his mind and he forgot what he was going to say. Not a bad idea actually, he thought, staring out at the rain, one part of his mind fascinated with the way the mist congealed on the window to run down in crooked little streams that distorted the shape of a dark van parked at the curb in front.

Why not? he thought. Why not just write my own book? With a smug grin on his angular face, Lyman leaned over the coffee table to pick up a ballpoint pen. I’ll show her…

At the precise moment Lyman bent to reach for the pen, his entire life changed as the room exploded in his face.

Chapter 2

Bending to pick up the pen, Lyman was startled to see a vase of flowers on a table beside the couch suddenly burst into pieces. At the same time several books seemed to literally jump from a bookshelf and fall to the floor. In the same millisecond, his ears registered the sounds of the outside door crashing in, and several staccato concussions that his mind instantly identified as gunfire. It had passed directly over his head.

Some men might have frozen in shock, and they would have died. Lyman, however, who normally worked through problems in a thoughtful, analytical way, had an unusual ability to act with hair trigger reflexes in a crisis. It was like his mind went into neutral and the adrenalin took over when the situation called for it. He reacted without thinking. He didn’t stop to investigate the source of the shots. Already in motion, leaning over the coffee table. He simply continued his forward movement, going into an awkward dive that landed him flat on his back behind the couch. Heavy slugs thumped into the thick cushions, blasting shreds of stuffing into the air. Now his mind was racing as he struggled to understand what was happening. Tumbling over the back of the couch he had caught the briefest of glimpses of two men dressed in dark clothing, carrying guns. Why…? Why were they shooting at him? Why were men like that even in his house?

Nostrils flaring, adrenalin pumping, he hyperventilated, jerking his head rapidly back and forth looking for something to explain this impossible craziness. His reading glasses were knocked loose, hanging from one ear. He fumbled with them nervously, the smell of gunpowder sharp in his nostrils. His eyes were wide with fear. The shooting had stopped.

Suddenly a man’s head appeared in his line of vision, looking down at him over the back of the couch. The man’s face was obscured by a black ski mask, with holes for mouth and eyes. The eyes were expressionless, cold and cruel.

The gunman took in the situation instantly and relaxed. Well, looky here, Frank, he sneered, we got us a frightened little boy here, trying to hide under the couch.

The slim figure sprawled on the floor appeared to be rigid with fear and no threat at all. His glasses hung from one ear and his eyes blinked rapidly, darting from side to side, as if searching for a place to run. His short cut hair stood out wildly. The gunman chuckled. Just another smooth palmed yuppie in a blue button-down shirt, Duck Brand khakis and brown dock shoes with no socks. They must cut these guys out with a cookie cutter, he thought with contempt. Hardly worth the expense of a bullet.

The thug reached behind his belt and slid a black handled commando knife out of a leather sheath. The six-inch blade was matte black, except for the bright razor edge. The back of the blade was serrated with saw teeth. He tested the edge with his thumb and grinned with satisfaction.

C’mere, chicken, he said, reaching over the back of the couch with the knife. I’m gonna slit your throat just to watch you flop.

The knife never reached Lyman’s throat.

Afterward, Lyman never remembered what he did, or how. He only remembered the terror. Some unconscious part of his brain willed his muscles to move. As the hand descended with the knife, Lyman’s left hand rose to meet it, blocking the thrust. At the same time his other hand, the one still clutching the uncapped ball point pen, flashed upward. The flat, cynical eyes of the terrorist had time to register only a momentary, fleeting surprise before the left eye was pierced by the sharp end of the pen and Lyman drove it into his brain.

Chapter 3

The other gunman, leaving his companion to handle the studious looking yuppie, had turned his search toward the kitchen. The unearthly scream turned his head and jangled his nerves. Scratch one useless husband. But then he paused. That sounded like it could have been Dino…

Stepping back into the den, the assassin froze in shock at the sight of his partner’s body sprawled across the couch on his back. One leg jerked spasmodically, but Dino was dead, a stubby object protruding from his left eye socket.

Holy mother of… the assassin swore, whirling almost too late to see the heavy lamp flying through the air at his head. A burst from his Uzi shattered the lamp, but a chunk from the heavy ceramic base connected with his masked forehead and dazed him. Before he could clear his head, Lyman was on him like a tiger. The mask twisted, blotting out the terrorist’s vision as a clawing hand clamped like a vise onto his windpipe. What is this, the guy thought wildly, stars bursting in his head. I’m a black belt in several kinds of martial arts, and I’m being killed by a couch potato?

He managed to bring the Uzi up, aiming to cut Lyman in half with a full-clip burst, but Lyman knocked the muzzle aside and was untouched as the muzzle spouted bullets. He brought a knee savagely up into the intruder’s crotch, which produced a gut-wrenching shriek. As the pain-wracked villain doubled over, Lyman, with flawless instinct, brought his knee up again to meet the descending face.

Then it was all over.

Suddenly it was just quiet. And still. A warm rain-misty breeze drifted in through the smashed door, stirring floating bits of stuffing from the ruined couch.

Lyman whirled in a crouch, fists cocked, ready for another attack. But there was nothing. Only the sound of his own rapid breathing and the two bodies on the floor. One of them looked dead. For the briefest of moments Lyman reflected on that. He had never in his wildest dreams imagined that he would be capable of killing someone. It sobered him.

Then all regrets and reflection vanished as he remembered his wife. Jane! What had happened to her during all the shooting?

Fear jolted him like an electrical shock. He sprinted down the hallway leading to the study. He heard a muffled scream, cut off in mid-cry. He hit the door to the study going all out, almost smashing it from its hinges. He slid to a stop and swept the room with a quick glance. Nothing moved. The French doors leading out to the patio stood open. Shattered glass covered the floor. An aerosol can of furniture polish stood on a table beside a dust cloth, and a wingback chair was overturned. But, other than the chair and the broken glass, nothing appeared to have been disturbed. But Jane was gone!

Sick with dread, Lyman stepped through the splintered French doors and did a quick search around the patio and pool area, childishly hoping that Jane would leap out of the bushes into the safety of his arms, but realistically fearing he might find her dead body instead. Someone had invaded their quiet life with serious intent. The bullet holes and smashed-up room were proof of that, not to mention the body of the man he had killed. Lyman shuddered. What was happening? Why was this happening?

He realized that he had heard no shooting from the room where Jane had been working, and hope rose in him again. His mind raced, fumbling for answers. He took a deep breath and willed himself to think objectively. Okay…someone had taken Jane, not killed her. But they had certainly tried to kill him. So it was his wife they wanted, and alive. But why? What in…

The squeal of tires from the driveway in front of his house cut through Lyman’s line of thinking. Breaking into a run, he cleared the shrubbery surrounding the patio with one bound, and raced toward the sound, slipping in the wet grass as he rounded the corner. He was in time to see a dark van speeding down the street, heading toward the avenue leading out of the neighborhood. Frantically, he tried to think. What to do now? The van was too far away to see the license number. He whirled. The garage door was open. Lyman jerked his car keys out of his front pocket and ran to his Tahoe. But even as he was opening the door to get in he noticed something seemed wrong about the height of the four-wheel drive vehicle. He looked down to see that both tires on his side had been slashed. A quick check on the other side confirmed that all four tires were flat. Wheeling to look at his wife’s car, Lyman groaned aloud. These guys were thorough. The few moments it had taken them to puncture eight tires had bought them all the insurance they needed against being followed.

Lyman followed anyway. He wasted no time cursing his luck or hopelessly wringing his hands. All he knew was that the woman he loved had to be in that van. With no other means of travel available to him, he simply turned and began to run. The logical thing to do would have been to go back into the house and call the police, but at that moment Lyman wasn’t thinking logically. He just ran, instinctively, unthinking, through the misting rain. He didn’t intend to let the van out of his sight if he could help it. The neighborhood where he lived was a new development with winding streets, set back in a wooded area with houses spaced far enough apart for privacy. It was a gated community (but without the guardhouse), and only had one point of entry and exit. When the van turned a corner and disappeared from sight, Lyman left the street and cut across, headed straight for the gate. He ran through a back yard and jumped a narrow drainage ditch, then splashed through another manicured lawn to come out on the same street within view of the exit gate.

He was hoping there would be a lot of traffic at this hour on Padgett Switch Road, the neighborhood’s main connection to the town. He was hoping he could get lucky and catch up while the abductors waited for an opening to pull out into the traffic flow. The van was there, stopped as he had hoped.

Lyman was definitely out of shape, but he ran for all he was worth, covering the ground rapidly with long, loping strides, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Then his heart sank as he saw the van turn into a gap in the traffic and accelerate away. NO! he shouted in bitter rage. His strength suddenly drained out of him and he went to his knees in the middle of the street. His tortured lungs were wracked with sobs of frustration. They were going to get away, and he was helpless to do anything about it!

The drizzling rain fell softly on Lyman’s bowed head, plastering his dark hair to the back of his neck. Water and hot tears dripped off his chin. For a moment his world stood still and he simply knelt there in the rain, a lonely, sodden, dejected picture of hopelessness. Then a low rumbling sound from behind penetrated his consciousness and he whirled. A gleaming black Harley-Davidson chopper rolled to a stop beside him, little beads of water rolling off its waxed paint.

Hey, man…you okay? Lyman looked up to see a large, hairy individual dressed in a leather cap and vest and faded blue jeans. In another setting he could have passed for a side of beef. There was, however, a look of concern on his face. Lyman dropped his eyes to the death head emblem airbrushed onto the side of the bike’s gas tank. Was this guy a Hell’s Angel?

Are you with them? Lyman said bitterly, hauling himself unsteadily to his feet. He was prepared to do whatever he needed to do.

Am I with who, man? The biker looked puzzled. He took his Harley hat off and pushed his mirror shades up to rest on his almost bald head. Why are these biker guys always covered with hair everywhere except the tops of their heads? Lyman wondered, I ain’t with nobody, man, the hairball said. When I came along you looked like you was in trouble, is all. He goosed the accelerator handle and the Harley’s patented blublublublub sound rolled out of the tail pipe. So, if everything is cool here I’ll just be shoving off." A tattooed hand reached up and resettled the Harley hat