Unforeseen Fears: An Armis Ambros Mystery

By HW Gruchow

They played games with murders; harmless games, it seemed, piecing together details from news reports; imagining theories about how and why; and wagering each other on the outcomes.

The Dunwright murders were tragic: Dillon and Martha were killed, and Brianne was missing. Still, like the others, this game wasnt supposed to be serious. But was it an execution or a kidnapping? And why was so little progress being made toward solving the case? Their curiosities fired up, Armis and Jake broke the rules and did their own sleuthing. If the investigation was being subverted, who was doing it, and why?

The mystery deepened when nine-year-old Briannes dismembered remains were discovered weeks later and miles awayand Armis quest for her killer became an obsession.

Yet, through encounters with corrupt lawmen, malevolent executives, and reticent family members, Armis was unable to find the answers he needed; until he met the mysterious Malwina. She insidiously drew him into her plan of personal vengeance, and closer to learning the reasons Brianne had to die. But as they intruded into a world where the bad guys seldom lose, the game turned dangerous...and deadly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462866977

HW Gruchow

H. William Gruchow began writing fiction after an academic career spanning nearly forty years, during which he published numerous scientific papers, articles and books, and enjoyed teaching thousands of students. “Writing good fiction requires the same level of creative energy and attention to detail as good scientific writing and good teaching. At their best they are valuable learning experiences for the author, as well as being informative and entertaining learning experiences for the audience.”

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

June 2001

Toller Biggs was missing; and Jerry Bentley, sheriff of Parson County, thought he knew why. His undercover unit had been tracking Biggs, whose activities included frequent trips to Stone County. It was on one of those trips that Biggs disappeared.

Convinced that Stone County sheriff George Hightower had something to do with Biggs’s disappearance, Bentley persuaded the State Bureau of Investigation to send a team of divers to search in Emerald Lake. What he hadn’t anticipated was that the bureau would turn to Sheriff Hightower and his deputies for help in the search. For Bentley, the arrangement was not what he planned; for Hightower, the search was a threat he couldn’t take lightly.

Hightower, the older man in cowboy hat and jeans, spoke with a hill country drawl. "Jerry . . . you haven’t told us why you think Toller Biggs is in our lake. He leaned a calloused elbow on the bridge railing. Stone County Sheriff" was written in black letters on the back of his white T-shirt.

No, I haven’t, Bentley replied abrasively. Might never tell you—even when we find him! He stood with both hands on the railing, probably the only person around the lake wearing a shirt and tie that morning. His eyes were fixed on the barge and divers in the water below. Under the circumstances, he had no intention of being forthcoming.

Hightower followed Bentley’s gaze. Usually doesn’t take my boys long. We should find ‘im soon . . . if he’s in the lake at all.

Taking a box of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, Bentley tapped one out. "They’re not your boys—not all of them anyway," he replied angrily.

Hightower kept pressing. I heard, Sheriff, not everybody in Parson County is happy about you comin’ here.

You think so. It was not a question. Bentley lit the cigarette.

Your opponent, for one.

We don’t need to talk about Scott, Bentley replied. He’s a loser, and you know it. His reference to Ned Scott reflected the disdain he had for the man he beat out in the last election. The way he saw it, Scott probably colluded with Hightower in Biggs’s disappearance as a way to get back at him; and he was sure Hightower was feeding Scott anything damaging about him he could find, or make up, to help fuel Scott’s comeback.

Maybe, replied Hightower. But seems a bit risky, you coming here. Don’t you think?

Leaning with his back to the railing on the other side of Bentley was Clay Nance, sheriff of Pine County. He launched a stream of tobacco juice and watched it splatter on the roadway. "Our lake, huh?" he said out loud.

Barely thirty and with the stocky, muscular build of a country boy who grew up on a farm, he’s the youngest of the three—and in uniform. The bridge was in his county, but he struggled to deal with his pretentious guests.

What was that, Sheriff? Hightower called out past Bentley. Didn’t hear what you said.

Nothin’. Nance wasn’t ready to confront Hightower yet.

Coming back to Bentley, Hightower said mockingly, Now where were we?

It’s risky all right, Bentley answered, referring back to Hightower’s earlier question. Only the risks might be different than you think. He flicked the ashes off the end of his cigarette while he loosened his tie. It was a stifling morning, and another ninety-degree day was building. The sun glaring off the surface and the humidity from the steamy water made it seem hotter. He drew on his cigarette again.

Getting too warm for you, Sheriff? Hightower asked.

Nance had heard enough. Goddam it, George. Back off! he blurted.

Hightower straightened up and glared at Nance. The younger man glared back.

Unsettled by Nance’s outburst and irked by Bentley’s refusal to be intimidated, Hightower slipped one hand in the front pocket of his jeans and started slowly walking toward the staging area just off the north end of the bridge. After he was out of range, Nance, who was now standing next to Bentley, sent a stream of tobacco juice into the water. Arrogant son-of-a-bitch, ain’t ‘e?

Bentley flipped his cigarette butt into the lake in an affirmative response.

I was meanin’ to ask you, continued Nance, what you said earlier . . . about it being ‘risky’? He turned toward Bentley. Know something you want to tell me?

Pickett Bridge spans a narrow arm of water in the upper reaches of Emerald Lake, near where the boundaries of Pine, Stone, and Crawford counties come together. Its flat roadbed and straight railings intrude harshly on the rugged terrain. Yet for all its impertinence, the bridge provides welcome access to that remote part of the lake and the surrounding woodlands for hikers, campers, fishermen, and hunters.

It also makes it easier to hide bodies. With little effort, someone in a car or truck can drive onto the bridge, drop a body into the water below, and leave without being noticed—especially at night. Not surprisingly, someone’s have. Bodies have been recovered underneath the bridge, and many suspected that others were there, still to be found.

Bentley watched as Hightower reached the end of the bridge and stepped over the guardrail to observe the search from the cliff. He knew if Biggs’s body was in the lake, Hightower was doing his best to steer the divers so they wouldn’t find it. He wondered how long he would let the search go on. One more day . . . maybe.

The murky water slowed progress, and the first few hours produced nothing more than the usual trash and rubble. Just before noon, a flurry of activity on the barge drew the attention of the three lawmen. The crew had moved to one side where a diver surfaced. Hightower pulled his two-way radio from his belt and called Preston on the barge.

Sheriff, one of the divers found a steel drum partially buried on the bottom near the middle bridge support.

What’s in it, Deputy? asked Hightower.

Don’t know, sir, Preston replied. The top is welded on.

Well, put a harness around it and bring it up, man! shouted Hightower. And tell Rawlings to meet me at the boat ramp. Not waiting for an answer, he holstered his radio and ran toward his patrol car. On the bridge, Bentley and Nance, who overheard the conversation on their receivers, also began running—toward the end of the bridge. They could see Hightower in his car turn down the gravel drive and spin to a stop at the top of the ramp.

Looks like George is in a hurry, said Bentley. Rawlings was already at the ramp with the rescue boat, and as soon as Hightower climbed in, they took off for the barge.

Guess he doesn’t want us along, responded Nance. Still running, he called Hightower on his radio. There was no answer.

At the ramp, the two men waited for Rawlings to come back and take them to the barge.

The first inspection of the barrel revealed nothing. It was obvious that it had been in the water a long time. The outside was badly rusted; any markings or labels that might have indicated what it originally contained were no longer visible. Because a number of onlookers had gathered on the bridge and along the shore, Hightower decided to open the barrel on the barge, rather than move it onshore.

Deputy Preston, who had a flair for the dramatic and enjoyed being the center of attention, assumed the role of unofficial master of ceremonies for the proceedings. Before opening the barrel, he pointed out to anyone listening that the spot welding of the top left gaps, which allowed water and silt into the barrel. He explained this technique ensured the barrel would sink to the bottom and not be swept downstream, where it might end up beached and found. It seems likely it was dropped into the water directly off the middle of the bridge, and that’s where it stayed. Whoever did this knew what they were doing.

Impatient, Hightower called to Preston to stop talking and open the damn barrel. Preston used a cutting torch to carefully ring the barrel, just below the lip. Wisps of steam rose from the edges of the cut metal as he progressed, and rivulets of water streamed down the side of the barrel. When he had gone completely around, he laid his cutting tools and mask on the deck. Then he stood next to the barrel, grasped the lid on each side with his gloved hands, and, in a sweeping move, swung the top upward over his head, revealing the inside.

If Preston’s performance in opening the barrel was too dramatic, no one bothered to tell him. They were all too busy jostling one another and stretching to see what was inside. Their first looks were disappointing. The barrel was filled with dark water that obscured what was beneath the surface. All that was visible was a pair of skeleton feet partially breaking the surface, one on each side of the barrel, dangling like leaves from the exposed ends of a mostly submerged set of leg bones. A badly deteriorated high-heeled shoe floated near one foot. Was the body in the barrel upside down?

To drain the barrel, the crew started a hose siphon over the side of the barge. Nance quickly stopped them and told them they needed to collect what they drained because it might contain evidence. The outflow was redirected to a hastily assembled line of buckets.

As the water in the barrel was drawn down, an unsettling image emerged. Both sets of leg bones angled toward the third side of the barrel where their proximal ends came together and rested on a pair of thigh bones. The flesh had decomposed and fallen away, leaving a stringy mold-blackened material that seemed to be made up of fabric melded with hardened skin hanging from the leg bones—like funeral streamers on a discarded scarecrow. The group on the barge was hushed, as if they were viewing something very sacred . . . or very profane. A few whispered expletives were heard. Bentley watched in silence, standing just behind the inner circle of spectators.

Shadows from the bright sunlight obscured the lower part of the barrel. Preston pulled a flashlight from his belt and aimed it inside. He narrated what they were seeing as those closest to the barrel looked in, and he moved the light around. Looks like the silt that is collected on the bottom has partially buried the skull. It must have fallen off the neck. He raised the light beam to show the top of the backbone higher up on the side of the barrel and then lowered it back to the skull.

See the clumps of black hair mixed with the silt next to the skull? Curly. Moving the light toward one side, he continued, Those fingers pointing into the silt . . . still have gold rings on them. And see the bracelets next to them, partially buried? . . . They’re gold . . . and there’s what’s left of the other shoe. Without talking further, he shined the light first on the pelvis protruding from the silt near the skull, then on the rib cage that rested on top of the pelvis. Finally, he beamed the light on the rusted chain that encircled the ankles and traced it down into barrel as it wound around the body of the skeleton several times and ended in a coil at the base of the neck.

Breaking the silence, Hightower tried to sound official. Looks like a small person . . . and the wide pelvic bone . . . the high heels . . . the jewelry . . . If I had to guess, I’d say it’s a woman’s body. Maybe black, from the curly hair.

Then looking at Bentley and unable to disguise his satisfaction, he commented through a sarcastic grin, Might have a problem convincing anyone it’s Toller Biggs.

Bentley was somewhat bewildered and didn’t respond. He sensed Hightower was both relieved and apprehensive. The body wasn’t Toller Biggs’s, but whoever it was would probably create a new problem for him. Unfortunately, thought Bentley, Hightower now had the excuse he wanted.

When they reached shore, Hightower told the search crew to wrap it up, that he was discontinuing the search for Biggs. We’ve got to deal with this new find. Besides, there’s no point in wasting taxpayers’ dollars on a wild-goose chase.

Bentley’s thoughts of protesting the decision were cut short by Hightower’s phone.

What’s the name again? Desmond? Oh! Okay. Thanks.

Hightower had called in a request to his office from the barge. Off the phone, he announced to everyone in earshot, We have a possible missing persons match to the body. Then turning to Bentley, he gloated, saying, A woman named Retha Demónd, missing since 1989. That’s long before Toller Biggs went missing.

Bentley nodded and decided it would be futile to try convincing Hightower to change his mind about the search for Biggs.

Onshore, Bentley slowly made his way up the ramp toward his car parked off the side of the roadway. He was bent over as he walked, and sweat beaded on his forehead. Large areas of his shirt were soaked with sweat. Although he had known all along that it would be a long shot to find Biggs’s body, even if Hightower was cooperative, the reality of having lost his best opportunity was bitter.

When he reached his car, he called his secretary and told her he would be back in the office tomorrow. As he folded his phone, he caught sight of Hightower and Nance having an animated discussion at the top of the ramp. He recalled that the body had been recovered in Nance’s county. Good luck winning that argument, he thought.

On the drive back to Parson County, Bentley contemplated what more, if anything, he should do about Toller Biggs. Hightower’s actions confirmed what he had surmised about the body being in the lake, so there seemed no point in continuing the search elsewhere and no need to give Ned Scott any more material to use against him.

He wondered how Retha Demónd came to be in the barrel. By now, he figured, Hightower probably knew the answer.

CHAPTER TWO

Twelve years earlier, mid-November

Crullerton, North Carolina

Awakened by the clatter outside, Retha pulled a robe over her pajamas and rushed out the front door.

"Daryl, what the hell are you doing here?" she yelled, walking toward the old pickup stopped in her driveway.

Two men were in the truck. One of them, a young black man, got out on the driver’s side. His jeans were as faded as his truck and torn at the knees. His sweatshirt, which once might have been red, was a dingy orange-pink. He walked toward Retha.

You know you’re not welcome! she said. Get back in that heap of yours, and you and your friend—whoever he is—get out! With her head up and her jaw squared, she raised both of her arms out in front of her and defied him to come closer.

Daryl stopped. Retha honey, I was only comin’ by to see how you was. I thought we could talk. He spoke slowly in a thick-tongued drawl.

"Well, I don’t want to talk to you! she struck back. Her voice was firm and intense, her words crisp. I thought it was clear you weren’t ever to come back. Now turn around!" She pointed toward the truck.

Daryl was Retha’s old boyfriend, her boy toy for a while; he was at least ten years younger than she was. Last March, she sent him away, calling him lazy and saying he wasn’t trying hard enough to find a job.

Daryl started toward her again. Retha, don’t say it’s over. I couldn’t live with that.

It’s over! Believe me it’s over! Retha stopped short, straightened her back, and took a quick breath. Daryl was standing directly in front of her; a faint smile appeared amid his scraggly facial hair. He used to win their confrontations when he looked at her that way. This time, she stared back, challenging him. Daryl’s smirky look faded when he realized that Retha was not backing down.

If that’s what you want, Retha, he replied, his voice both tentative and sarcastic.

He glanced at the ground, uncertain what to do. Then he turned, shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, and walked stiffly back to his truck. Opening the driver’s door and standing behind it, he shouted toward Retha through the open window, This ain’t over! He got in and closed the door . . . hard.

Back in the truck, Larry didn’t cut him any slack either. She sure didn’t want to see you, man! he said with a laugh. Thought you said she was still hot for you. He laughed again. That’s what I like about hangin’ with you, man. Dumb stuff keeps happenin’.

Yeah . . . well . . . Daryl took a deep breath. We’ll see, white boy, he said as he turned to back up the truck. At the street, he looked back down the driveway. Retha was still there, standing with her arms folded.

We’ll see, he said again.

As Daryl drove away, Retha unfolded her arms and went back inside. She tossed her robe onto the chair next to her bed and dropped her slippers on the floor. It was half past nine; she had gotten barely two hours’ sleep.

One week later

The woman walking toward Retha was younger, maybe in her early thirties.

Hi, my name is Loren. I can help you now, Ms. Demónd. Sorry you had to wait.

Thank you. That’s okay, replied Retha, trying not to seem impatient. She had been waiting near the reception desk while Loren was on the phone.

The bank was busy the day after Thanksgiving. A new teller line opened to handle the influx of customers just before closing. Christmas music played in the background.

Loren was carrying a large key ring with a wooden handle. Her tired smile and badly wrinkled skirt, which Retha thought was too tight, reflected a long day. What’s your number, dear? Loren asked as they entered the safe-deposit vault.

Thirteen-ten, replied Retha. She signed and dated the log. Loren initialed it. After unlocking the box and removing her master key, Loren told Retha to call if she needed anything and then left her alone.

Retha pulled the brown metal tray out of the safe-deposit box and carried it a few steps to the lone cubicle in the vault. She opened it. There were three envelopes already in the tray: one contained her house lease, another her car finance papers, and the third held a couple of birth certificates—hers and Veena’s. Her life, she thought. Not much.

After glancing around to make sure she was still alone, she took a small red notebook out of her purse and laid it in the tray next to the other items. Then reaching into her purse again, she retrieved a large brown envelope. The contents of the envelope made it bulge, and it seemed almost too big to fit in the tray. She pressed it around the edges, forcing it in, and then leaned down hard on the lid until she heard the latch click into place.

Passing back through the lobby, Retha saw Loren talking with a man in a black trench coat and holding a fedora. He was in his forties with slicked-down dark hair. Loren leaned over her desk and jotted a note. When she saw Retha, she smiled and gave a little wave. The man turned and smiled faintly, then resumed talking to Loren. Retha thought he looked familiar, but then she met a lot of men in her work.

On the sidewalk in front of the bank, she dropped a white business envelope into the mailbox before heading up Main Street toward her car. The streets were quiet. Retha supposed most people were shopping at the malls or were away visiting relatives or were at home enjoying Thanksgiving leftovers for supper. She walked slowly.

At the first corner, instead of continuing on toward her car, Retha turned off Main Street and headed for a small café a half block away. It was a place she went to mostly on weekdays when it was crowded with shoppers and businesspeople. Tonight it was empty. The lone woman behind the counter was familiar, but Retha didn’t know her name. They exchanged some small talk about Christmas shopping while she prepared a hot chocolate. When it was finished, Retha thanked her and took it to a small table by the window. The woman disappeared into the back kitchen.

Retha set her cup on the table and laid her purse next to it. She unbuttoned her white coat, and as she laid it over the back of the chair next to her, she caught her reflection in the window. She paused. Grandma would be proud, she thought. Her figure, her green sequin dress. Moving closer to the glass, her hands softly touched the curly black hair that framed her face; and then she slowly turned her head, first to one side and then the other, to admire the two diamond studs that pierced each ear.

She smiled, but the smile was fleeting. Retha had misgivings.

She sat down to her hot chocolate.

Perhaps the cost was too high. She was not the mother she wanted to be. She had known Veena once, when she was little, but it seemed she didn’t know her at all anymore. In high school now . . . it was probably too late.

Retha did not deceive herself: she knew her work was unredeeming; many vilified it. But it was not without purpose, she thought. After all, she had been able to provide for Veena and help out Mittie. Thank God for Mittie! And now it was time to face something harder: men weren’t calling her anymore like they once did, especially the ones who paid well. She wouldn’t be able to provide for Veena and Mittie like she had. Her savings would have to do.

Looking out the window, it seemed to Retha that the cold blue streetlights accentuated the loneliness.

A lone sedan slowly passed by the cafe, headed toward Main Street. It was a dark color, blue or black. The driver was wearing a hat. Retha recalled the man in the bank. Could be, she thought. The car stopped at the corner where Retha had just been. A woman approached the car on the passenger side and got in. Loren? The woman from the bank?

Retha smiled again. Small world, she thought . . . and she wondered.

Nearing her car, Retha was annoyed that the streetlight was out. She pressed the button on her remote and walked into the street. The dark sedan seemed to come out of nowhere. As she reached for the door handle, she was spun around and pinned with her back against her car. She could see the man’s hat, but not his face. His arm pressed against her throat; a gloved hand covered her mouth and nose. It was cold and wet. She struggled to breathe.

Retha’s head was pounding; her gut was in painful knots. Something cold and damp was against her face. A floor, she thought, a basement floor? She lifted her head and heard a metallic sound, like chain links clinking together. She couldn’t see much, except a sliver of light coming in under a door a few feet away. She tried to get up, but something was wrapped around her chest and arms; her legs were bound too. She rolled over on her back—that metallic sound again—and came up against something prickly. Straw? A bale of straw? She wondered. She rolled the other way and felt a tightening around her neck. The chain must be around my neck, she thought. What’s it tied to?

She rolled the other way and on her back again. Her prison seemed to be a small room with a high ceiling, maybe

Reviews for Unforeseen Fears

[skstiles612 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I love mysteries. It is even better when the mystery has the reader so involved they are walking right alongside the characters. In this book, Jake and Armis have always competed to figure out murders. A creepy hobby in my opinion, but to each his own. Something has changed in their little game. A murder form the past seems to have some sort of connections to a recent disappearance. AT first the book felt a little disjointed. Some many different characters. I was not really sure who to trust, who was believable. Suddenly, everything was brought together in a nice neat packet. All of the loose ends and characters were brought together and the reader says, “Oh, I didn’t see that coming.” That in my opinion is the making of a great book!It is for these reasons that I would recommend this book, especially to those who love mysteries. This was my first reading of any work by this author. I will definitely look for more work by him.