A Knife's Edge: Ronan McCullough Thrillers, #2

By Eliot Parker

Six months after a drug cartel infiltrated Charleston, Ronan McCullough continues to fight the drug war that plagues the city. His investigations are halted when the body of a mutual acquaintance, Sarah Gilmore, is found in the trunk of a burning car. In an investigation that takes him deep into the professional and personal life of the victim, McCullough discovers secrets lurking in her past, and a tangled web of personal and professional conflicts, suspicion, and betrayal. Was Sarah killed for those reasons or something larger? As Ronan seeks answers, his life and the lives of those closest to him are used as pawns in a deadly game that has no ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Headline Books
• Release date: Oct 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9798201358402

Eliot Parker

Eliot Parker is the author of four thriller novels and a collection of short stories. His short story collection, SNAPSHOTS, won the PenCraft Literary Award as well as the Feathered Quill Book Award. His thriller novel FRAGILE BRILLIANCE was a finalist for the SIBA Book Prize in 2017 and his novel FRAGILE BRILLIANCE was an Amazon Bestseller and won the West Virginia Literary Merit Award. He hosts the podcast program NOW APPALACHIA on the Authors on the Air Global Radio Network. The show profiles authors and publishers with connections to the Appalachian region and how that region influences and impacts their work(s). He currently teaches writing at the University of Mississippi.

Book preview

1

Marvin pulled the thick coat around his mid-section girth and barely got the buttons snapped. He blew air into his hands twice, trying to get the stinging cold in his fingers to go away. He paced back and forth, looking up and listening to the cars coming down the ramp from the Southside Bridge onto MacCorkle Avenue.

At this distance, Marvin could see the edges of the old C&O Railroad Depot planted next to the railroad tracks. He walked to an underpass, which was buttressed by crisscrossed steel beams holding up part of the Southside Bridge entrance ramp. Marvin could hear the hiss of cars as they accelerated and decelerated on the ramp.

Standing beneath the underpass made Marvin feel even colder. It felt like all of the steel overhead clenched the cold and released it every time a car crossed.

Marvin learned the space had not been a railroad depot for a while. Instead, part of the building had become Laury’s Restaurant. The other part of the building was an Amtrak ticketing station, but with limited hours. Marvin went to Laury’s on his first night in Charleston, but the men dressed in tuxedos and the white tablecloths lining the round tables indicated a menu selection out of his price range. When the doorman greeted him in French, that was the last straw. Marvin drove to

Patrick Street on the west side of town and ate at McDonald’s. Now, Laury’s was closed indefinitely due to busted water pipes that had flooded the restaurant.

The wind seemed to power through the space between the bridge ramp, the retaining wall and the restaurant. It blasted through the narrow space, slamming into Marvin’s face and making his nose run. He was used to the temperate March climate of Florida and found late winter in West Virginia revolting.

Marvin cast a look up and down the railroad tracks, wondering if a train would pass by before the meeting was over. Leaning against a concrete wall, he dug into his coat pocket and tapped out a cigarette. He nervously lit it and took a long drag before spitting out the smoke just as fast. When he turned to the left and looked back at Laury’s, he could see a shadow approaching.

Marvin checked his watch. It was 6:45. The meeting would begin right on schedule.

The man approached in a long, black wool trench coat, a black top hat, and black leather gloves.

Marvin squinted as he came into focus. He’d briefly spoken to the man twice on the phone, but this was the first in-person meeting between them. The man looked down as he walked, almost as if he were making a mental note of each step taken.

Marvin took the last quick drag from the cigarette and dropped it onto the gravel next to the railroad tracks then stomped it out with the heel of his boot.

Anxious, Marvin took two large steps to close the distance. Finally, the man looked at him and held up a hand. Marvin stopped walking. He swallowed hard and nervously rolled his shoulders.

The man also halted his steps and stood erect, almost like a drill sergeant at attention. Marvin guessed the distance between them to be ten yards. 

Marvin cocked his head to the side. You the guy I talked to on the phone?

The man answered. It depends. Are you Marvin?

On the phone, his voice was a rich baritone. Marvin leaned closer. The man was medium-sized with close-shorn dark hair. His physique didn’t match his voice.

I want my money, Marvin demanded.

A sly grin crossed the man’s face. Here. 

He pulled out a wad of cash wrapped in a dark plastic bag and threw it at Marvin. It landed in the space between them.

Marvin, with his odd loping gait, kept his eyes on the man as he stepped forward to snatch the bag. Marvin jerked back a few steps, still watching the man. Marvin looked down at the bag. He tore it open and began counting.

He winced. This ain’t all of it.

I know, the main replied cryptically. Our friend thinks the second part of the agreement is payment enough.

Marvin cocked his head to the other side. How do you know about that? The man nodded his awareness in a silent answer.

Look, Marvin continued, my blood’s at the scene of that assault in Tampa. If the Tampa PD matches it to me, I’m going away for a long time.

Marvin could see the soles of the man’s feet bounce as he shifted his weight. "Once we get everything established here in Charleston and make this the base of operations, we can have that blood changed. Remember, Marvin, we brought you to Charleston to let the heat die down in

Tampa."

Marvin remembered. He furrowed his brow. How do you all do that, anyway?

The man shook his head. It doesn’t matter. What did Sarah say?

Not much, Marvin replied, feeling his face flush with embarrassment. I had the perfect plan. I watched her for a few days, waited until she parked at the top of that hospital garage, and then I went after her.

The man scoffed. The plan didn’t work. He took a step closer. And she will go to the police and file a report. Then a cop will be assigned to the case. The report will say you threatened to kill her!

Marvin felt his heart race and he began to sweat, despite the chill. Hey, look, man, I needed to threaten her to get her to talk.

Ha! I told you West Virginia women are tough. The man finished his statement with a dry chuckle. We will have to be careful now.

Marvin watched as the man rubbed his chin with a gloved hand. That’s it. The meeting is over.

Marvin had so many questions, and the panic he felt came out in his voice, which was tight and sharp. What about me and my situation? I mean, if I ain’t getting paid the full amount promised, at least will my problems in Florida be taken care of?

The same sly grin from earlier returned. I’ll be in touch. The dark-clothed figure pivoted and started walking away.

Hey! Marvin called out. The shadow grew between them as the man walked faster. When he emerged from just under the Southside Bridge ramp tunnel, Marvin felt his vision blur slightly as he became further encased in darkness.

Hey! When is my problem going to be fixed?

The man stopped and spun around on the heels of his feet. Marvin saw the form of something aiming for his head. A pop ricocheted in the tunnel. Marvin squinted through the dim light only to see the flick of a silver spark flash before the muscles in his legs gave way and the scene went black.

2

Still sleepy, Ronan managed to eat a piece of slightly undercooked lasagna and swallow a large cup of regular coffee after getting dressed. His plan was simple: he would support his boyfriend, Ty, by dressing up in his normal police uniform, replete with the utility belt. That would allow him access into the Clay Center to attend the dinner and dedication reception of the new Charleston Mercy Hospital Children’s Cancer Center. In full uniform, nobody would question why Ronan was there, and if someone did, he would simply say he was there to provide extra security for the event.

Ronan pulled his truck off Interstate 64 at the Leon Sullivan Way exit and accelerated down the off-ramp into downtown Charleston. The architect and designers of the Clay Center had thought of everything when designing the building, except parking. Ronan turned left at the intersection of Leon Sullivan Way and Brooks Street and parked behind the Clay Center. The parking lot was once the site of Charleston High School, which closed in 1989. Now, Charleston Mercy Hospital owned the lot.

Once outside his car, Ronan looked across Washington Street East at Charleston Mercy Hospital. The bright-red, rectangular EMERGENCY sign jutted out from the building. To the right of the block frame that housed the Emergency Room, Ronan could see the tall, sloped towers of the new wing, rising behind the building like antlers.

Ty was the emergency room charge nurse at the hospital. As Ronan stared at the sign, his mind snapped back three years. He had been brought into the emergency room after responding to a hostage standoff on Seventh Avenue on Charleston’s West Side. After Ronan and several other officers had surrounded the house, a man started shooting at them, shattering most of the windows on the first floor of the house.

Several shards of glass had landed in Ronan’s forearm. The paramedics rolled Ronan into the ER treatment area and pushed him against the wall. Ronan remembered how crowded the ER had been that night and the moans and cries of patients made him feel sick. As he waited to be examined with his bloody forearm bandaged, he looked over and saw Ty talking in angry, hushed tones on the phone to someone.

He was immediately struck by Ty’s physique; the tight, taught body, unblemished mochacolored skin, muscular deltoids, and the firmness of his back muscles which permeated his shirt. Staring at Ty made those long moments in the emergency room pass quickly. When Ty hung up the phone, he turned around to face Ronan and dropped a small picture on the cot. Ronan looked at the picture, with Ty sitting closely next to another guy, their hands interlocked together. Ronan looked up at Ty, who blushed and stuffed the picture into his pocket. Later, Ty told Ronan the guy’s name was Chris. For the next few months, Ronan found any excuse to go to the hospital emergency room to see Ty. When Ronan asked Ty about Chris and learned of their breakup, Ronan finally got the courage to ask Ty on a date.

Ronan smiled as he thought about that experience. The bleated sound of a car horn pulled him from his thoughts. A dance of light and shadows from the low-hanging moon glinted off the glass façade of the hospital onto the street below. The air made Ronan’s hands clammy and cold. As he turned and charged around the west side of Clay Center, his face became numb and a chill went down his spine. 

The Clay Center opened on July 12, 2003, in the East End of Charleston. Ronan drove by the building every day during construction. The 240,000-square-foot facility took twenty years to build. From the first time a consultant had proposed the idea in 1983 until the doors finally opened, the Clay Center had run up a cost of $120 million dollars, was adorned with 500,000 red bricks, 400,000 concrete blocks, and featured a planetarium, an art gallery, a science museum, a blackbox theater and an acoustically superior 1,883-seat performance hall.

Its cost, grandeur, and the fact that all of the building features were housed under one roof made it a unique facility and the envy of other cities in the United States. The facility was a symbol of opulence that stood out amongst the more rugged, craggy neighborhoods surrounding it.

Ronan rubbed the tip of his nose with the back of a hand and nodded politely as an elderly couple, adorned in formal evening wear, stared at Ronan for a moment and then rushed through the swinging glass doors of the Clay Center.

He followed. Inside, several television cameras faced out from the wall to the right. As Ronan looked over the scene, his eyes fixed on Braxton Campbell, standing next to the mayor of Charleston, John McClure. 

This is a great day for healthcare in our region, the mayor beamed. His traditional dark tuxedo complemented his thick tuft of gray hair and dark eyes that were red-rimmed under the glare of brightly mounted camera lights. John McClure was short and portly, with a long, angular face and jowls that sagged below his jawline. 

"The city of Charleston, through the investment made by Charleston Mercy Hospital and with the support of BTech Laboratories, will be at the forefront of children’s cancer care not only in

West Virginia, but throughout the entire region."

The mayor flashed another toothy grin and nodded at a reporter amidst the rushing voices calling out questions.

Mayor, what about BTech, the company that has occupied a floor of research space inside the new part of the hospital?

That question made Ronan stop and turn around. The mayor, not anticipating the question, looked nervous. He smacked his lips and his eyes darted around the group nervously. 

As...as with any new company that has decided to do business in Charleston, we are glad to have them here. We think having BTech in sync with the doctors and the medical professionals at the hospital will prove beneficial for everyone.

The press seemed satisfied with that answer. Ronan wanted to step forward and ask the mayor to truthfully complete the statement: the West Virginia State Police also expected BTech to process evidence and blood analysis in their crime lab, not in the lab in South Charleston. Ronan resisted. He had made his partner Eric Bonamico a promise to stay quiet on the issue and he would.

Braxton Campbell, a criminal defense attorney in Charleston, stood next to the mayor, smiling under the attention of the media. He leaned in and whispered something to the mayor; then the mayor held up a hand.

I almost forgot. John reached an arm around Braxton. Braxton was a large black man with a round face, thick neck, and broad shoulders. He could play linebacker for any professional football team. The mayor’s arm looked like a slack rope draped over the arm of the lawyer.

This is Mr. Braxton Campbell. His personal $100,000 contribution helped solidify and finish the funding for the new cancer wing. I want to take a moment to introduce him.

Braxton embraced the mayor and posed for the typical grip-and-grin photo-op that most politicians have perfected. After a few seconds, the media pounced on Braxton.

Mr. Campbell, is there any truth to the story that you are going to run for Kanawha County Prosecutor in May? one female reporter asked, raising her microphone until it was inches from his lips.

Hearing that question caused Ronan to arch an eyebrow and lean in closer. He wanted to hear more.

Have you received support for your candidacy from current prosecutor Dennis Sanders, before his term expires?

A third reporter chimed in, Having been a defense attorney in private practice, how will that experience translate into your acting as a successful prosecutor?

The large smile on Braxton’s face waned as the press continued to pepper him with questions. The mayor stopped the interrogation.

Folks, I want to thank you for coming. I am proud that Mr. Campbell played an important role in offering legal expertise to the city as we fought the scourge of drug dealers that took over our city in the fall. But the event tonight is about fundraisers and organizers for the children’s cancer wing. Questions about Mr. Campbell’s professional choices can be answered another time.

When the reporters took in a collective breath and began firing off yet more questions, the mayor silenced them. Thank you. Thank you for coming. This is a great day for Charleston. Ronan walked over to the performance hall lobby.

Inside, soft orchestral music played in the background as overly formally dressed guests milled about the room, talking in small groups, holding cocktails and chatting with exaggerated expressions. Ronan felt awkward and out of place. A large dais adorned with two long tables and a podium ran across the right side of the room, just below the spiral steel staircase that slinked up to the second floor of the Clay Center. Three armed security guards, wearing dark black uniforms with matching boots, stood positioned on three sides of the lobby. They glanced stoically around the room as the guests circulated.

The room was filled with round tables and plush, comfortable chairs. The many tables were adorned with glassware and glistening silverware, perfectly set with the stacked plates in front of each seat.

Across the left wall, running under the square glass windows, were several tables groaning with food. Ronan padded over to the lavish display of smoked fish, carved meats, hand-tossed salads, and vegetables. Ronan reached down, plucked a celery stick from a tray, and stuffed into his mouth.

Ronan.

He felt his face flush at the embarrassment of getting caught taking something from a food tray. When Ronan whirled around, he saw Ty staring at him, with a look of both bemusement and concern.

Ty, Ronan said, gnawing the celery and swallowing.

What’s going on? 

Ronan smirked. Surprise.

Ty folded his arms. Is everything okay?

I know I shouldn’t have taken something from the buffet without asking. Ty gazed past Ronan and then settled his eyes on him again.

A beat passed. Ronan said, I wanted to be here to show my support. He could not help but be impressed. Dressed in a traditional tuxedo, Ty showed an amazing style. He was shorter than Ronan, with a hard, lean frame. The shapely fit of the tuxedo accentuated the appeal of his features. His flawless olive, Polynesian skin offset his dark, pecan-shaped eyes, and those eyes brought out the natural allure of his oval-shaped face. The dimples on his chin flexed anytime Ty set his jaw.

Ty looked Ronan over with delight. Ty flashed a glowing grin at Ronan. He stepped closer to him and pressed his palms against Ronan’s chest. Ty looked up at Ronan with a look of endearment.

Ronan nervously cleared his throat and pushed Ty’s hands away. Ty appeared wounded. Is there someplace we can talk? 

Ty sighed. Yes. Follow me.

Ronan trailed behind Ty as his boyfriend weaved between the clustered groups. They made it to the entryway and turned to go down a small hallway leading to the restrooms. Ty came to an abrupt halt.

A man emerged from an overhang and came into focus.

Mr. Andino, correct?

Yes, that’s correct.

Ronan came around and stood next to Ty. The man, tall and courtly with dark brown hair tinged with grey, extended a hand. 

I had planned on introducing myself before the presentation, but then I thought, ‘Why not now?’ I’m Dr. Richard Metzger, the resident director of the BTech office in Charleston.

Ty took the man’s hand to shake it. "It’s a pleasure. The rest of the fundraising team and I owe

BTech a great deal of thanks. We wouldn’t have been able to finish construction without the donation."

Ronan watched as the eyes of the doctor became fixed with a wistful expression. BTech wanted Charleston Mercy to know that our partnership is going to be a long-term arrangement. 

Ronan shifted his weight from foot to foot, and the jangling of his utility belt diverted the focus of the conversation. Richard tossed a quick glance at Ronan.

Is anything wrong? Richard asked, pressing his thin lips tightly together. "I hope Mr.

McCullough wasn’t called in on account of something we should be aware of."

Ronan bristled. How do you know my name?

Richard waved off the comment. The television coverage. I saw your picture on the noon news. They did a story on your raid of that house in the South Ruffner area. A room catching fire. Vials of blood discovered inside the house. Several more drug dealers taken off the streets. Very impressive. Richard Metzger spoke with crisp diction that Ronan took as condescending.  Ronan remained silent, studying the doctor.

The work those men and women do to keep all of us safe every day is remarkable.

Let’s make this official, Ty interjected. Dr. Metzger, meet Sergeant Ronan McCullough of the Charleston Police Department.

Richard stuck out a hand. An honor, officer.

Sergeant, Ronan replied, tentatively gripping the doctor’s hand.

Richard blinked. "Of course. Where are my manners? Glad to meet you in person, sergeant. Ronan fell silent again.

Ronan is one of the lead undercover cops in the department, Ty said, spilling out the words quickly. He and his detectives are in the ER at Charleston Mercy quite often when suspects have been injured, or the family members and friends of victims need to be questioned.

Richard tossed a look at them both. A great team, I’m sure. The doctor let out a trilling, witty laugh. He locked eyes with Ronan, a look that Ronan felt was fixed hard for a reason, although

Ronan wasn’t sure why. 

Richard pointed over them at an indefinite location. If you’ll excuse me.

Ty nodded and watched the doctor slip away, out of earshot. Of course.

Ronan scoffed. I don’t like that guy.

Ty spun around. Seriously, Ronan?

It’s just a feeling.

The doctor spoke to us for less than five minutes.

Ronan watched intently as the doctor schmoozed another group of people near the buffet. Ty tugged at his arm, pulling him away.

They walked back to a hallway near an emergency stairwell that ran along the wall near the bathrooms.

Speaking of South Ruffner...

I didn’t know we were, Ty.

Ty’s face grew strained with concern. He looked up at Ronan, his expression earnest. "We did what we could for that man in the ER and the Medevac got him to the burn unit at Cabell-

Huntington quickly. Ty looked down for a moment before speaking again. Ronan, over 50% of his body was covered in burns. With burn victims, the percentage of burns coupled with the age of the victim determines the chance for survival." Ronan arched an eyebrow. 

The guy was 44...

The same age as me.

I know, Ty said, speaking softer. But if the burns cover more of the body than the age of the person deducted from 100...

Ronan looked away and spoke into the open space in the corridor. 50 is greater than 44, and deducted from 100 means...

...that the ratio was fifty-six. When he left the ER at Charleston Mercy, we knew the chances weren’t good.

Ronan held up a hand and winced. Okay. I got it.

Ty interlocked his thin hands and slender fingers with Ronan’s large, meaty hands. Ronan, I’m sorry. I truly am. But I’m also relieved.

What?

Ty squeezed tightly. I thought that guy might have been you, Ronan. Ty swallowed hard.

"Every night, when I know something dangerous is going on and you are a part of it, I think that

I’m going to get a call from someone or the paramedics are going to tell me..." 

Ronan looked down at Ty and broke the hold of the locked hands. He placed a finger under

Ty’s chin and lifted it up. Ronan saw the worry in his eyes.

That’s not going to happen, Ronan said, his timbre hushed to a low rumble. "I’m always going to come home. Always. The best part of my life is you."

Ty’s face brightened. The door to the women’s restroom was flung open and two older ladies with wrinkled skin covered by too much makeup shuffled past them in murmured whispers. Ronan pressed his back against the wall, creating enough distance between himself and Ty to offset attention, and jammed both hands into his pockets.

Ty fidgeted awkwardly with the buttons on his tuxedo jacket until the two women had passed. As Ronan prepared to reset the conversation, a voice over the intercom system in the lobby asked guests to find their seats so dinner could begin.

I’d better go.

Ronan smiled. I’ll be here for a while.

Ty grinned broadly and looked at his watch. It’s past seven. I haven’t seen Sarah. Hearing the name snapped Ronan’s mind back to attention.

Sarah?

Yes, my friend that worked with me in the ER as a nurse. She doesn’t work at Charleston Mercy anymore. I saw her earlier today and asked her to be my date. Ty jerked his head up and eyed Ronan. I invited her because I didn’t think you would be here. Look, Ty...

It’s okay, Ronan, Ty said, already moving away. She probably came in and we didn’t see her.

Ronan followed after Ty. He needed to tell him that Sarah had come to see him and that she had been accosted in the parking garage at the hospital. Ty hated it when Ronan kept secrets, and he was determined not to keep this one.

Ty charged ahead, taking the red-and-black painted flooring with quick steps, weaving between guests as they sauntered off to different tables. Ty stopped in the middle of the lobby and spun around, casting a long look around the room.

As Ronan followed, he saw the two specks of white light in the distance, just beyond the large, arched glass windows that looked out onto the plaza in front of the Clay Center. The glare shining in the glass stung Ronan’s eyes, and he had a difficult time locating Ty.

Ronan held a hand over his eyes. Across the room, Ty stood in front of the buffet, scanning the room with obvious concern.

From the corner of his eye, Ronan watched as the various dignitaries that constituted the platform party marched across the dais to their assigned seats. Ronan saw Richard Metzger and Mayor McClure exchange a long handshake.

By the time Ronan made it over to Ty, the lights in the distance had grown brighter. Ronan planted himself firmly in front of Ty, blocking his ability to see across the room.

Ty, we need to talk.

I’m looking for Sarah.

Was my being here tonight a mistake?

Ty dropped his head and locked eyes with Ronan. At that moment, a man standing at the end of the buffet line made an audible gasp and pointed through the glass.

Ronan looked to the left and followed the man’s finger. The two beams of light grew larger and covered the glass windows with blinding, white light. Ronan could hear the faint thrum of an engine.

A pang of dread welled up inside Ronan. Something was wrong.

Ty turned and faced the light. Ronan...

A beat passed. The dread Ronan felt became a palpable panic.

Oh my God. Everybody get down!

The announcement came too late. Ronan grabbed Ty by the arm and slung him across the room as a vehicle slammed through the glass windows.

3

Ronan opened one eye. The thick haze of fractured debris made his eyes burn. 

He spat, trying to clear the