The Cards

By Mike Combs

this story set in the tourist belt of Upper and Lower Michigan will set
chills down your spine and make the hairs on your neck stand up!
When a rash of brutal murders around his hometown include
his best friends family, Mitch Armstrong and his partner, Wendy
Allstott, become involved in their most intricate case ever. Why
are the victims being killed? To what end are these ruthless killers
willing to go? Mitch and Wendy have to match wits with evil on
many levels to solve this case and make their hometown safe again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483635392

Book preview

THE CARDS

Mike Combs

Copyright © 2013 by Mike Combs.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-4836-3538-5

                Ebook          978-1-4836-3539-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 06/24/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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130284

Contents

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In mid-December of 2011, my family had a devastating blow of consequences.

It changed many of us forever. I know it changed me. We suddenly lost a very healthy, intelligent, and gifted young man. It made me realize to live for today, because bad things can happen to good people.

This was the second time our family has lost a young adult, and it is one of the most helpless feelings a relative can have.

My youngest son had been teasing me about writing a book, because I had often said I would like to. Within ten hours of hearing about my nephew Jeremy, and thinking of my niece Jenna, I started writing this book. The words came so easily at first, and quite honestly, the story actually unfolded as I wrote it. I know I dreamed part of it. And we can’t forget the ideas that come to us, just living life.

This story is not intended to refer to anyone I know, or have known. It’s a story that I have been thinking about for some time. Letting the ideas percolate and then, marinate for days, until it felt right, then it would make it to the computer. I would like to (if I may), dedicate this prose to

Jenna Elizabeth Haddrill

January 21, 1981 to March 29, 2005

Jeremy James Combs

December 15, 1989 to December 17, 2011

MIKE COMBS

12/2011

 1

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The night, like so many before, was dark and damp. The cloud cover helped keep the moon from lighting up the night. The street lights put a slight glow on the wet pavement. It was late summer and the nights were still warm. The mosquitoes and gnats were out with a vengeance, looking for a good meal. As he waited in the bushes for dusk to turn into night, he thought about what brought him here, the cards. Lincoln had followed her to the coffee shop; her looks… just like the picture, so fresh, clean, and innocent… was one of the things that would always get his blood up. He wasn’t sure why, anymore; it was just what he did.

There had been many, and it truly took a moment to remember them all. Men, women, old, young, it did not really matter. Just the thrill of the hunt and then the attack. He had gotten pretty good at it, he thought. It had been months, and no one even had a suspicion. But that’s what he did.

He can see the lights are on inside her house… very easy to find, even if he didn’t already know the location. Especially after he saw her on her bike, she couldn’t live too far. People were just too trusting. He sees her enter the coffee shop; he followed her in. From there, it was easy: just start a friendly conversation; talk about the weather and the success of the local sports team. What a rush! Knowing in a few hours, she would be his, to do as he wanted. She would soon understand what it was like to be in the presence of greatness! Now, just leave before she does, follow her back home, too easy.

It was a house in one of those old neighborhoods with plenty of trees and shrubbery. The city’s founding fathers had the forethought to plant oaks, elms, and maples along the streets, giving the neighborhood a shielding from the sun and the wind. Great places to raise a family, all the neighbors have children. Dogs barked to one another as the newspaper boy rode through in the mornings, tossing the papers on the porches. The people sat on their porches until dark, listening to a ball game or maybe just visiting, using up what is left of the summer. Always, there were bikes on the sidewalk or ball games at the empty lot on the corner. Halloween brought the little ghosts and goblin’s out for free goodies. At Christmastime, snowmen, snow forts, hockey games, and of course, the incredible light shows on every house.

The house was old but well kept, with matching shutters on the garage and the house. The garage was detached like all the old ones were. The locks were decades old and really no real deterrent. The catch took Lincoln Webster but a moment, and he was in, quietly, checking his breathing. He stood perfectly still, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He saw a dog dish and reached into his pack; he was always prepared. He had done this enough times to know how to deal with almost every obstacle. He rarely needed his gun, but of course, he’d have it. The surprise was his best weapon. No one really thought someone was going to enter their home, that was just on television or in the books they read. The poison he has mixed with a little burger always does the trick. He makes a slight noise to attract the dog; sure enough it shows up wary… they always did. Real guard dogs were rare; usually, they’re one of the family members, a pet. He tossed the meat packet toward the dog. Another two minutes; he’s in the house alone with her now.

 2

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Mitch Armstrong had always wanted to be a state trooper, help people, and do the right thing. He was raised an only child by his parents, who owned and ran a sports shop called, of course, Armstrong’s in the little town where they lived in Hillston, Michigan. It was just south of the Mackinac Bridge, which connected the upper and lower parts of the state. Hillston was small enough that the state police post in town was the only police presence; it had no local police. The Armstrong’s store was one of those shops you could get your fishing and hunting licenses. Fishing rods, reels, and bait. Guns, ammo, bow—hunting accessories. They rented boats to the fishermen in the summer and snowmobiles to trail riders and fishermen in the winter. Mitch’s mother kept the six small bungalows they rented out, which were along the water in the back, spotless. Fishermen in summer and winter knew of the place. Business was fairly good, with a lot of return customers. Nothing tells of a good business like return customers Mitch’s father was always saying.

Mitch was in charge of the bait tanks at the shop while he was a teenager. He took pride in keeping them clean, the fish odor to a minimum. He loved to see the guys coming back and using the fish cleaning stations, seeing the big fish that came in. And of course the buck pole during deer season when the hunters would hang the animals along a pole Mitch’s dad had buried along the side of the shop. With a $250 prize and the next years license for free, they had a lot of contestants year after year.

Mitch, at six and half feet tall, was always athletic. Sports and friendships just came naturally to him. With dark hair, and easy—to—tan skin, Mitch seemed to look perpetually healthy. After college, Mitch enlisted in the military; he did three tours in Desert Storm, received his honorable discharge, and joined the academy to start his police career. It didn’t take but just a few years to figure out that bad people were in all occupations, even the state police. Most were good, even great, at what they did, but as time went on, he became aware of the dishonesty and lack of direction in the high ranks. The politics just got in the way of doing the right thing. After becoming disillusioned, he did some soul—searching, and after long talks with his family, he left the troopers for private practice.

He had a small investigative business in Hillston called Info Inc. There were three girls in the office; Toni Reardon, Wendy Allstott, and Sophie. Toni took care of the day—to—day paperwork. She was what you might call a medium built sort of woman, not overweight, but no supermodel either. She kept the bills paid and the court room paperwork in order, if it ever went that far. Mitch met Toni’s husband Tom, who was a state trooper, when he was at the post. He was one of the good guys. They lived in the next town to the west, about twenty minutes’ drive to work.

Wendy did the research. Now there was your supermodel type. Wendy was also athletic and took her exercise and training seriously. She had received a double scholarship to Michigan State University: one, academic; the other, for sports. She was on the college volleyball team. She had just received her second—degree black belt in martial arts. Wendy lived in a house several blocks away from the office, and it wouldn’t be unusual to see her jogging to and from work when weather permitted. Or else, driving in her pride and joy, her brand new Jeep. Mitch wanted the girls to look professional, so he had put in a shower in the restroom at the