The Match: A Novel

By Davinia Bostick

What is more powerful:
Hate..Vengeance.Greed.Fear.Forgiveness. Memory.Murder..Love?
THE MATCH takes place in only five days, yet in these mere one hundred and twenty hours powerful forces collide:
A dying tycoon desperate to pay any price for more life;
A murderous sociopath lusting for wealth and power;
A brilliant moral cipher willing to commit unspeakable crimes to keep his loathsome secrets;
A vengeful hate so consuming it can only be sated by death;
A beautiful young woman who reminds an old man of a treasure misplaced;
A memory holding a stunning secret;
A hired killer who regards butchering and slaughter as just another day at the office.
When immovable objects confront their polar opposites something has to give.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 26, 2009
• ISBN: 9781477163009

Davinia Bostick

Dr. Bostick was born and raised in El Paso, Texas and currently lives in the Southwest. She earned her Bachelor's and Master's in Nursing from University of Texas. Dr. Bostick's graduate focus was in psychiatric mental health and her primary studies researched family violence, abuse, addictions and arts as a healing modality. Her PhD is from the University of Colorado Health Sciences Center in Denver.She has practiced in Medical-Surgical, Pediatrics and Psychiatric nursing and is licensed in TX., NM., CA., NJ., with inactive licenses in Maine and Colorado. She has been an educator in face to face and Online classes since 1991. Last year a hard copy of THE MATCH by Davinia Bostick was published. Her study of the sociopathic personality played a role in the character development of the criminal minds in the novel. It is a good read for any one interested in psychiatric mental health and the sociopathic personality as she weaves the sociopath's ability to fool unsuspecting persons into a web of deceit with a smile and seemingly noble intent. This edition of THE MATCH is co-authored with David Vale.The Match Available At Amazon.com

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PROLOGUE

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Friday 2:30 am, New York City

Death inspires dreams about the past, not the future. When we know the door to Death’s dungeon is creaking shut we dream about what was, we dream about what never was and we dream about what could have been. Especially what could have been?

Jason Tarmon, one of the wealthiest men on earth, is dying and as he dies he dreams about his youth, forty years ago…

A pretty blonde girl, 19, happily prepares a picnic beside a pond in the rolling hill country of central Texas. Resting against a cottonwood tree is a woman’s bicycle with a wire basket attached to the handlebars. Under the tree she spreads out a blue blanket and is busy unpacking miscellaneous items from a wicker basket: some bread, cheese, two candles, a bottle of cheap wine, two glasses, a home-baked pie, dishware and a large cigar. Around the blanket colorful wildflowers are artistically arranged. Two pillows are at the head of the blanket. Tenderly she places the cigar on one of the pillows with some wildflowers. She hears a noise and looks down the road. A vehicle is coming, raising a cloud of dust. Very excited now, she hastily arranges everything. Looking at her presentation with satisfaction she adds a finishing touch by lighting the candles and placing one behind each pillow.

A late model Cadillac convertible with huge tail fins pulls up with a young man, 23, at the wheel. He stops and gets out of the car, smiling broadly. He is a large, handsome man with an athlete’s physique and a cocky air. He walks towards the girl with his arms spread. She runs to him and leaps into his arms. He spins her around as they kiss. The girl takes his hand and begins pulling him in the direction of the blanket but he shakes his head and points to his wristwatch. She points to her picnic. Again he gives her an exasperated look and points to his watch. The girl is angry now and, with her hands on her hips, begins upbraiding him. He holds both his hands out with his palms up, like people do in church, and looks at the heavens, as if asking for understanding. They argue back and forth before she angrily turns and walks over, plops down in the center of the blanket and looks out over the pond, with her chin on her knees and her arms wrapped around her legs. He walks halfway towards her, pleading with her and pointing back to his Cadillac but she ignores him and continues gazing out over the pond. He pumps his index finger at his wristwatch and again points at the Cadillac. She continues to ignore him.

He spins and stalks back to the vehicle and gets in but she still does not respond. In exasperation he starts the motor and makes a big sweeping U-turn and stops close to the cottonwood. He yells at her once more but she pretends not to hear him. Looking at his watch again, and then back to the girl, he shakes his head in frustration and drives off. In his rear-view mirror he sees the girl stand up and stare at him in disbelief. She runs a few steps in his direction and yells for him to come back. He watches her in the mirror and smirks in satisfaction, as if to say, that’ll teach her. Her image stays in the mirror, getting smaller and smaller, until she disappears in the swirling dust.

Jason Tarmon’s eyes suddenly open and he looks around his huge opulent bedroom in confusion before recognizing where he is. Rubbing his legs, the way people do when they are in pain, he reaches for a container of pills beside the bed, pours a few into the palm of one hand and tosses them into his mouth and washes them down with an unfinished cocktail on the nightstand. He looks at the illuminated clock beside his bed: 2:45 am

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CHAPTER 1

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Friday 2:50 am New York City

It’s late, a perfect time for cats to hunt and kill; there are not many people about and even fewer dogs. The city is filled with thousands of feral cats and the wee hours are their favorite time to prowl and feed on another thing the city is overpopulated with: Rats. One clever calico Tom makes a reliable living by concealing itself near some human garbage and patiently waiting for a hungry rat to appear, as they always do.

Here comes one now. Only the eyes of the cunning Tom move, following the approach of his prey. He squints his eyelids almost completely shut so as not to reflect light. A hungry sewer rat greedily approaches the luscious smelling garbage. It moves stealthily, in short bursts from hiding place to hiding place. The closer it gets to the prize the less acute are its survival instincts, dulled by the overwhelming odors of the waiting feast. There, at the base of a dumpster, is the remains of a pastrami sandwich the rat smelled a hundred yards away. A few yards become a few feet… then inches… and just as the rat opens its mouth to partake of the delicacy the equally hungry but far craftier Tom pounces, like a hungry tiger: The feline’s sharp claws dig deep into the rat’s back and the carnivore’s teeth bite down hard on the scavenger’s neck, severing the vertebrae. The vermin lets out a final death squeal-EEEEEEK!

Walking down the lonely street, arm in arm and giggling, are Stuart Tarmon and his new friend Nina. They both jump at the death cry of the dying rodent. Jesus, look at that, says Stuart pointing to the calico Tom carrying off his dinner.

They stand outside an old apartment building in Manhattan’s Chelsea neighborhood and Stuart proudly points to a dusty banner hanging above the entrance that proclaims:

A STUART TARMON ENTERPRISE

See, I told you so.

Nina admires the banner. Wow, you really do own it?

Lock, stock and barrel, he boasts. Come on, let’s go inside. He leads her up the short cement stoop, opens the door with his key, flicks on the dim hallway lights and stands to one side. Home sweet home. I’m having the place remodeled so things are kinda messy.

Nina, a busty blonde woman in her mid-twenties, does not hesitate. Great, I don’t know anybody in this town that owns a whole building.

Plenty of privacy too, brags Stuart. After I bought the place I had everyone evicted for the remodel. All the top floors are gutted but I’ve kept a snug little place here on the first for myself. I normally live on the upper east but I decided I’d live here until the remodel’s finished, make sure the hired help aren’t ripping me off. Stuart starts down the hallway with Nina following.

The hallway is cluttered with painting and plastering paraphernalia. In a corner are stacked several ladders, some scaffolding, white tarps, piles of one-gallon and five-gallon buckets of paint and miscellaneous tools. The walls are speckled with huge swatches of drying plaster.

The workers won’t be here till eight so we got lotsa time, says Stuart eagerly.

That’s what ya think, Romeo, comes a raspy voice out of the darkness.

A stunned Stuart turns to run but two burly men emerge from a door behind him and another appears in front.

Looks like ya been renovatin’ with Carlo’s money. Raspy voice rises from the chair he has been patiently sitting in under the staircase. He is a small man, no more than five-three, but he exudes a deadly air. His sunken cheeks are heavily scarred from acne and his full lips curl down to one side when he speaks. He wears a tight fitting short sleeve shirt revealing faded tattoos on both forearms.

No, stammers a terrified Stuart. I got a construction loan. My dad co-signed.

Carlo’s tired’a hearing about yur dad. He don’t owe the cake, ya do, and ya missed yur last two vigs. He motions to his cohorts who quickly grab Stuart and Nina and frisk them for weapons.

Now wait a sec, pleads Nina desperately. I got nothing to do with this. We just met a few, the small man slaps Nina hard, then takes out an eight-inch switchblade and flicks it open, holding it menacingly close to her face.

Shut the fuck up, bitch, or I’ll cut somethin’ off.

Stuart is feeling nauseous, his eyes bulging with fear. I can get the money, he stammers. Two days-no, one day-that’s all, one day-Oh God, he screams in pain as raspy voice grabs his testicles and squeezes.

He hisses in Stuart’s face. Carlo said not to cut any arteries, but he didn’t say nothin’ about cuttin’ yur dick off. He squeezes again and pulls hard.

Please… I, sputters Nina who is instantly silenced by a vicious backhand from raspy voice.

I told ya to shut the fuck up, bitch. Raspy voice grabs a roll of duct tape and tosses it to one of his men. Tape ’er. The men quickly wrap two loops of tape around Nina’s mouth and continue down her body, pinning her arms at her sides and her legs together. Raspy voice then turns to Stuart who is pissing in his pants. Well, lookee here. Romeo needs a diaper. All the goons snicker. Now what am I gonna do with ya, Stu? Huh? Yu’re inta Carlo for more’n three mill. That calculates yur vig at ninety thou’ a week, plus penalties but instead’a showin’ a little rispect your renovatin’ and spendin’ money on pussy like this.

One day… please… tomorrow, I can do it. I can catch up. I swear, pleads Stuart.

Ya can, huh? Raspy voice rubs his chin, pondering the situation. I’ll tell ya what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna let ya keep yur body parts-for now-but I want three, he holds up three fingers for emphasis, three payments in twenty-four hours. That’s two hundert and seventy big ones plus forty extra g’s in penalties. That totals to three hundert and ten g’s. You think ya can manage that, Stu?

Yes. I’ll get the money, gushes Stuart.

Yeah… but just to show ya that bizniss is bizniss, I’m gonna have to make an example of yur bitch here. He points to the tarp in the corner. Spread out that tarp and lay this bitch on it, he barks to his men.

Nina is grunting and struggling but she is strongly bound with the duct tape, like a cocoon. The men spread out a tarp and lay Nina down. Get that paint shaker over here, commands raspy voice. The men bring over a paint shaker. Now put her head in it. His men place the metal bands of the paint shaker against the sides of her head. That’s it—now screw it down-hard-I said fuckin’ hard. Nina grimaces and grunts as the rounded half-bands of the paint shaker are tightened against her head. Raspy voice stands on Nina’s legs, further immobilizing her. Now, Stu, come over here and flick that switch on, he points to the paint shaker.

No-I can’t, please-I, Stuart cries.

Now Stu, ya better show some rispect or I might reconsider ya keepin’ yur Johnson. He flicks open the switchblade again.

One of the goons pushes Stuart in the direction of Nina. He falls to his knees and vomits. Your dick or yur girlfriend Stu. What’s it gonna be?

Stuart looks at Nina and mouths a pathetic I’m sorry as he reaches for the shaker switch. Nina’s desperate eyes are pleading No! No! No!

Raspy voice kicks Stuart from behind. Do it.

Stuart hits the switch.

Nothing happens.

Nina’s face is contorted as if ready to receive a shock and Stuart looks over in surprise.

Heh, heh, heh, chuckles raspy voice sarcastically. The three goons also start laughing. I was just fuckin’ with ya Stu. He points to the electric cord. It ain’t plugged in… heh, heh, heh, . . . But if it was that pretty little face’d look like a fuckin’ watermelon that fell off a fast truck.

Raspy voice gets down on his knees and sniffs Nina’s body. He inhales deeply with his nose on her neck and exhales slowly and ecstatically. Ahhh… Oh yeah, that’s some nice pussy. He looks mockingly at Stuart. Ya was gonna be samplin’ a little of this tonight, wasn’t ya Stu?

Stuart does not respond.

Raspy voice puts his hand on Nina’s groin and massages the terrified woman. Maybe ya wouldn’t mind if my boys here had a little taste first, huh?

Raspy voice rips apart Nina’s blouse and buttons go flying. He puts his knife blade under her bra strap and cuts it open. Her large breasts fall sideways into her armpits. Raspy voice squeezes one the way someone might squeeze a peach for ripeness. Nice… natural… no fuckin’ plastic. You’re gonna be nibblin’ on these tonight, eh, Stu?

Please, I’ll get the money, pleads Stuart.

Raspy voice begins examining Nina’s breasts with the point of his knife; he slowly circles the left areola. Ya know, someone tol’ me once that sometimes when these broads get a titty job that the doctor completely cuts the whole fuckin’ nipple off and moves it. Sews it back on somewhere else. Imagine that? Cut the whole fucking thing off!

He gazes into her horrified eyes. Ya want I should reposition your nipples, honey?

Nina shakes her head as best as she can. He turns his gaze to Stuart and allows several seconds to slowly tick by, enjoying the moment. Ya ain’t gonna disappoint me tomorrow night are ya Stu?

No, I promise. I’ll have the money.

Raspy voice sticks his tongue out and gives a big animated lick to one of Nina’s breasts. All right… I’m gonna trust ya. He stands up, closes his knife, then goes to Nina’s purse and takes out her driver’s license. Listen up bitch. He shows her the license before putting it in his pocket. I know who ya are and where ya live and if ya go talkin’ about this, I’ll find ya and fuck ya up. He motions to his men to leave. I’ll be leaving ya two lovebirds alone then. Don’t disappoint me. Tomorrow, Stu.

Stuart doesn’t move until he hears the front door close then he immediately begins tearing at the duct tape around Nina and unscrewing the bands from her head. That little fucking dwarf. This time he’s gone too far… I’ll talk to Carlo… You were never in danger; I knew it… It was all a bluff… He laughs, I owe too much money for them to really hurt me…

As soon as Nina’s arms are free she furiously begins ripping the remaining tape. She frees her mouth. Get the fuck away from me! Don’t touch me! Get away!

She stands up and slaps Stuart with all her strength. You son of a bitch, get away! She begins picking up things and hurling them at Stuart: Tape, paint brushes and tools. He scrambles to his feet and runs into his apartment. Just as the door slams shut behind him she hurls a bucket of paint against it. Sick Bastard!

A terrified Stuart peers out the peep hole at the topless irate woman and sees another can of paint coming his way.

Asshole!

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CHAPTER 2

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Friday 9:30 am

A    cockroach nibbling away on a tiny piece of cheese beside Stuart Tarmon’s answering machine is rudely jolted from its meal by the sudden ringing of the machine. Grabbing the cheese, it scurries away, looking for more peaceful surroundings.

The machine picks up on the sixth ring: Hi, this is Stuart Tarmon. I’m not available at the moment but leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.

BEEP.

Stuart, crackles a male voice. Graff here. I’ll be at your father’s office in thirty minutes. Good news. It looks like we have a match.

BEEP.

A naked Stuart, holding an electric toothbrush in one hand and foaming at the mouth, emerges from the bathroom and stares at the answering machine in disbelief before picking it up and hurling it violently against the wall.

Fuck, he screams.

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CHAPTER 3

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Friday 9:31 am

A    crow, sitting in her cozy nest in a weather-protected niche among the huge steel beams that make up one of the world’s great bridges, is oblivious to the endless stream of traffic below. She is resting, having just delivered a long, bloody piece of squirrel road kill that her three chicks are greedily eating. One of the chicks, pulling hard on a piece of the meat, loses its balance and goes tumbling from the nest when the piece breaks off. The chick flutters its underdeveloped wings but plummets helplessly until it lands hard on the roof of a black limousine and bounces off onto the roadway where it is instantly squashed under the wheels of a delivery truck.

Sitting in the back seat of the limousine is Dr. Joseph Graff who sets a phone back in its cradle and grimly looks out the window as he crosses over the George Washington Bridge. He is pondering what he knows will be the most momentous and perilous decision of his life; he is so lost in thought that he does not hear the soft thud of the crow chick hitting the roof inches above his head.

Dr. Joseph Graff is a man of impeccable cleanliness and bearing. His salt and pepper hair is still mostly shiny pepper and he combs it straight back exposing his large forehead below a V-shaped hairline. His eyes are brown and penetrating, eyes that have seen death a thousand times, to the point of no longer being moved by what most people consider the ultimate tragedy. To him death is just another natural process, like having a bowel movement. His nose is long, straight and thin giving his face a sharp look. His lips are also thin and made thinner by his habit of rarely smiling or expressing strong emotions. As a child he was ridiculed by his peers who mockingly called him chicken lips.

Fifteen minutes later Dr. Graff is still absent-mindedly gazing out at the passing waves of humanity as his driver slowly navigates the busy streets of Manhattan’s mid-morning traffic. He touches the electric button on the door to lower the window several inches. The unmistakable din and clamor of big city life instantly fills the air.

He jerks up, suddenly realizing he is in the city. Immediately he closes the window and relaxes, back again in the quiet interior of the limousine. Taking a deep breath of the filtered air, he taps his sternum with his fingers. City air, he says to himself, is filled with every conceivable pathogen.

Ten minutes later the limousine stops in front of an ebony stone skyscraper in midtown, on Madison Avenue. In huge sixteen foot tall letters etched into the black granite are the words:

TARMON TOWERS

Dr. Graff steps out of the limousine holding a white handkerchief to his nose with one hand and carrying a black briefcase with the other. He is not a big man, about five-seven, but he is trim and moves with an athletic quickness. Sitting next to the building’s main entrance is a scraggly homeless looking man holding a hand scrawled cardboard sign that reads:

Dying of Aids

Please Help

Dr. Graff veers as far from the beggar as possible and stands beside a door waiting for it to be opened from the other side. After a ten second wait the door opens and he hustles in the building. Still holding the handkerchief to his nose he quickly makes his way past the elevator banks in the main lobby to a plain metal door off the central hallway. Setting down the briefcase between his legs he takes out a small remote control devise from a pocket and, pointing it at the door, enters a six-digit code. The door clicks open. Still pressing the handkerchief to his nose, he opens the door, picks up his briefcase and enters. Behind him he hears the heavy metal door click securely shut.

He is standing in a single-car garage size space with marble floors and dark wood paneling. At the far end of the space is a single elevator door. Finally, he takes the handkerchief from his nose, breathes in deeply and exhales to clear his lungs. Above the elevator door are two protruding cameras on mounts with a speaker in between; one of the cameras swivels and focuses on him. Good morning, Dr. Graff, says a heavy male voice.

The elevator door opens and Dr. Graff steps inside. He has been in the elevator many times and knows the routine. There are no buttons to push. A security guard, watching him through the dark half-dome camera in the center of the ceiling, commands the elevator. It is Mr. Tarmon’s personal elevator and it only stops on three floors: Mr. Tarmon’s personal parking spaces below, the main lobby where Dr. Graff just entered and the 75 th floor which Mr. Tarmon uses in its entirety for his personal office.

As the powerful motor pulls him upwards he knows he is passing the fiftieth floor when his ears begin to plug up. He pinches his nostrils shut and blows as the elevator comes to a halt.

From the elevator Graff steps into a reception area that is similarly decorated: Marble floors and expensive, dark wood paneling on the ceiling and walls. A pretty receptionist with shoulder length auburn hair stands up from her desk. Behind her is a row of eight-foot tall mirrors Graff knows to be one-way glass. Good morning, Dr. Graff, she smiles, may I take anything? Her high heels click loudly on the marble floor as she approaches him.

Thank you, Cynthia. You can dispose of this hanky if you would. Graff delicately drops the bacteria filled cloth into her hand. Dr. Graff never uses a handkerchief more than once and he carries plenty of extra ones in his briefcase.

Yes, of course. Cynthia takes the contaminated thing from the eccentric doctor. She is given a tainted handkerchief for disposal every time Dr. Graff visits Mr. Tarmon. The first few times she did throw them away but upon realizing they appeared to be brand new and clean she began taking them home where she washes them and adds them to her growing collection, now numbering several dozen.

She turns and makes her way back to her desk. As she reaches for the intercom button the thick wooden door behind her desk clicks open. Mr. Tarmon is expecting you.

Dr. Joseph Graff enters the office of Jason Tarmon.

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CHAPTER 4

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Friday. 9:58 am

Cavernous is the word that always comes to Dr. Graff’s mind when he enters his employer’s office. With ceilings over twenty feet high and occupying the entire 75 th floor, Graff estimates the actual open-space office at over fifteen thousand square feet with another five thousand square feet dedicated to the outside veranda, complete with a tumbling water garden and koi pond. Mr. Tarmon enjoys fish and used to spend a great deal of time on the veranda with his beloved koi collection but since his health turned frail he rarely ventures outside.

At one end of the office is an area of several thousand square feet where a dozen or so well dressed men and women work behind soundproof glass and one-way mirrors. Mr. Tarmon can watch them and listen in anytime but they can never look into nor listen into his business sanctum,