Past Purgatory

By Debbie Baldwin

A freelance reporter is murdered in Philadelphia.

A tech billionaire is poisoned in a Tampa restaurant.

Are these seemingly random killings connected?

Former CIA officer Finn McIntyre is out of options. After being captured and tortured on a SEAL mission, he was left with a scarred face and a mountain of rage. Years of working undercover in a drug cartel have only augmented his ruthlessness and isolation. His best friends at Bishop Security have all but given up on him, and the one woman—the only woman—he has ever loved has let him go. Finn has to get his head straight or end up dead.

With no one to turn to and nowhere to go, Finn takes off and finds himself in the strange town of Purgatory, West Virginia. The whistlestop is haunted and entrancing, and soon Finn finds himself with a home rehab project, an older neighbor in need of his help, a judgemental wolf, and a loitering little boy. Purgatory is a town full of secrets, and Finn is determined to unravel them while exorcising his own demons.

Charlotte Devlin—Twitch to those who know her—fell in love with Finn seven years ago. Before he was captured, before he became an angry, heartless man, before he discarded her like a regrettable one-night stand. If she hadn’t welcomed him into her bed that final time, maybe she could forget about him. Unfortunately, the baby growing inside of her makes that impossible.

To make matters worse, Twitch can’t stop the constant anxious feeling that she is being watched. When it becomes clear that someone is trying to harm her—and that the suspect is much more than an obsessed stalker—Twitch is forced to turn to the one man who can help her uncover what is really going on and keep her safe.

Finn and Charlotte finally realize their love was meant to be, but can they stop a madman threatening to take it all away?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Apr 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662925917

Debbie Baldwin

Debbie Baldwin is a successful print media and television writer. She is a graduate of Princeton University and the University of Virginia School of Law. Debbie and her husband live in Saint Louis, Missouri with their puggle, Pebbles. They have three children in college.

Book preview

Belgrade, Serbia

One year ago

Finn slipped the lock pick into his pocket and opened the door of the secluded home. The hinges had been deliberately left rusty to alert occupants of an intruder. The oil he had applied dripped over the brass and pooled on the stoop. With seasoned awareness, he stepped into the main room. The muted television produced a slideshow of light on the bare walls in the darkness.

A memory flashed in his mind, a vision of his old SEAL squad breaching a terrorist stronghold—his big best friend, Miller Tox Buchanan on his six, ever-calm Jonah Steady Lockhart and know-it-all Leo Ren Jameson backing them up. Taciturn Andrew Chat Dunlop watched the perimeter while their sniper set up on a nearby rooftop, and Nathan Bishop, their naval intelligence liaison, provided real-time updates. They worked like a well-oiled machine, a true team: their objective clear, their commitment absolute.

This situation was the opposite in nearly every conceivable way.

Two men slept, one on the couch, one on the floor. Even with the threat hanging over him, Raul Bilak still hadn’t laid out the cash for good security. Not that it would have made a difference. The minute Raul had challenged cartel chief Gabriel Lorca, his fate was sealed. If Raul had hired a platoon, Gabriel Lorca would have sent an army.

As it was, he sent Finn.

Of course, he wasn’t Finn to these men. Like all CIA non-official cover officers, he had an alias, but he never used it. They all called him Scarface, or whatever version of it their native languages allowed. Three days hanging from a cave ceiling while Syrian insurgents carved at his face like a thanksgiving turkey had left his profile a topographical map of disfigurement.

With the grace and indifference of a housecat, Finn slit the throats of both men. The vicious hunting knife cut through to their spines. The arterial spray decorated the walls and splattered Finn’s face. There were neater ways to kill a man, but Lorca wanted a show.

The blood drops turned to war paint as Finn swiped his cheek and moved to the stairs. A light came on at the back of the house. He froze and checked his watch: 4:30 a.m. Pivoting, he changed direction. Raul was an early riser, but not this early.

In the kitchen, a portly woman was retrieving items from the refrigerator. A guard sat dozing in a chair, his cell phone resting on his belly. Finn stabbed the man in the side of the neck while the woman hummed and gathered eggs and milk. She turned, clutching the items to her chest.

Finn pressed a finger to his lips. The woman stood stone still. Her eyes drifted up to the ceiling, then back to Finn’s. Without a sound, he walked across the clean white kitchen and stood before her. With the tip of the dripping blade, he pointed to the food in her arms and then to the refrigerator. Obediently, she replaced eggs. Then with an agility uncharacteristic of a woman of her age and comportment, she hurled the milk bottle at his head and screamed, "Opasnost! Ulijes!"

Finn batted the projectile away with professional calm and plunged the knife into the woman’s heart. The bottle shattered as she collapsed, milk and blood swirling into a pink pool.

Footsteps issued a drumbeat on the stairs; the housekeeper had successfully sounded the alarm. Now the fun begins.

The switch from silent killer to combat assassin was seamless. Finn left the knife lodged in the woman’s chest and pulled two magnums from their shoulder holsters. He needed to work fast. What Raul lacked in manpower, he made up for in cleverness. The man would have an escape plan.

Finn dispatched the four men on the stairs like mechanical bears at a shooting gallery. According to the information he was given, Raul had seven guards. Including the housekeeper, eight bodies were littering the first floor leaving Raul unprotected. Finn smelled a diversion.

Rather than head upstairs, he exited the way he came and moved around to the side of the house. Finn could just make out a man holding a rope ladder in the darkness while another climbed down. He walked out of the night just as Raul’s feet hit the grass.

With one weapon trained on each man, Finn spoke. Where’s the money, Raul?

With steely resignation, Raul kicked the duffle at his feet. "Take it. Don’t kill this man. He’s a priest from the village. He agreed to help me to get money for his orphanage. You don’t want that mark on your soul. You will burn in hell forever!"

Finn shot both men in the head, picked up the duffle, and walked back to the waiting van. Had he needed justification for killing the priest, he could have found it in the weapon discreetly hidden under the man’s jacket or the traces of cocaine circling his nostrils, visible even in the moonlight. Finn didn’t need an excuse. Gabriel Lorca’s orders were concise and explicit: kill everyone.

Dawn broke, turning the sky a fiery red. Raul’s words echoed in Finn’s head. You will burn in hell forever.

Too late.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

December 11

Another fun-filled Tuesday night, or now, Wednesday morning. Detective Aiden McIntyre stood in the taped-off alley and jammed his gloved hands into the pockets of his parka. It had to be close to 4 a.m. He’d been standing in the biting cold while his team worked. Portable floodlights illuminated the grim setting. Aiden choked down the last of the ice-cold coffee that had tasted like shit when it was hot and shoved the cup into the loose trash bag at his feet.

The Medical Examiner’s van pulled up and stopped at the barricade. Eliza Bright, the forensic pathologist, walked toward him, pulling on her latex gloves, her breath misting the air. Aiden handed her the remaining lidded cup. She thanked him with a mock toast.

Good to see my favorite detective back on the job, she said.

Not half as glad as I am. The real danger in police work? Desk duty. Death by paperwork. Aiden mimicked hanging by a noose.

Eliza Bright assessed his frame. How’s the shoulder?

Good as new. He ended the line of questioning and turned to the reason they were there.

What do we have? she asked.

Female late fifties. Looks like she was stabbed through the heart from behind. Owner of the diner called it in. Aiden jerked his head toward the heavy steel door at his back. Saw her when he was taking out the trash at closing. He indicated the mid-range designer bag on the folding table. Whoever killed her wasn’t trying to rob her or prevent her from being identified. Name’s Regina Phelps, New York driver’s license with a Manhattan address. There are also press credentials in there from a tech convention in Cincinnati last week.

I wonder what lured her to this enchanting corner of our fair city? Dr. Bright asked.

There’s a pack of smokes in there, too, Aiden said.

Eliza nodded. Why does a woman step into an alley?

Hey, Jimmy? You guys find a cigarette butt by the body? Aiden asked.

About a thousand so far, boss, the crime scene tech replied.

Eliza pointed to the adjacent wall with her coffee cup. Diner might be a good low-profile place to meet someone.

Aiden walked out to the sidewalk and examined the front of the restaurant. I was thinking along those lines. He spotted a sign in the window. Hey, Jimmy, why are we drinking liquid dog turd when this place claims the best coffee in town?

Opens at six, Jimmy replied without looking up.

Well, let’s have a look. Eliza walked over to the body and began a cursory examination. She’s been here at least a day. Lucky for us, that big storm they predicted Monday never materialized. The lack of snow and the cold did us a few favors. Eliza lifted the back of Regina’s coat and blouse. I can confirm your assessment of a stab wound as the likely COD. Single knife wound below the scapula. Likely severed the aorta. Your killer knows his anatomy. Help me turn her over.

Together they gently turned the prone body face-up, and immediately Eliza Bright’s expression darkened. Aiden knew that look: two parallel wrinkles between her brows, lips pursed.

What? he asked.

Aiden, this isn’t your primary crime scene. This body’s been moved.

What makes you say that? Lividity? he asked.

I’ll get to that in a minute, no. Her shoes are on the wrong feet.

Aiden looked down at the corpse and, while the difference was subtle, it was clear the woman’s square-toed heels were on the opposite feet. Whoever killed her dragged her here and lost her shoes in the process.

Dr. Bright finished Aiden’s thought. Went back to get them and jammed them on the wrong feet.

There’s no blood trail, Aiden noted.

There’s certainly not enough blood here. You think maybe a boyfriend or a husband stabbed her in one of these apartments, waited for her to bleed out, then moved her? She waved toward the upper floors of the surrounding buildings.

She’s an out-of-towner. Ran her info. She was on a Delta flight Sunday night. Uber dropped her off just after midnight. It’s possible the killer just pulled the body back from the entrance of the alley to avoid being seen.

Aiden stared at the asphalt, a thought striking him. Grabbing Regina’s bag, he dumped the sparse contents on the portable card table, pushing items around with a pen. He walked to the body and checked her pockets. Eliza waited.

Where’s the lighter? he asked.

Good question. Eliza continued her preliminary examination. We’re ready to wrap her up. She waved her assistants over with the body bag and the gurney.

Then I’ll finish up here and head to the office.

Ever heard of sleep? she asked.

Dino sleeps enough for both of us. I can’t tell you what fun it is having a partner who’s six months away from retirement. Aiden fished his keys out of his coat pocket, tossed them up, and caught them with a swipe of his hand. I’m gonna catch this guy just so I can thank him personally for dumping this case in our jurisdiction. I had Eagles tickets this weekend.

Eliza gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. Yeah, these criminals really don’t give a damn about our social lives. She walked past him and followed her team wheeling the gurney to the van. Duty calls. Turning back, she swept her gaze around the scene. Looks like your first case back is going to be interesting.

Aiden glanced around the dim, grim alley and watched the photographer continue to take pictures of the now body-less scene, the familiar snap and flash somber but soothing actions. He turned to the table and put the victim’s purse in a large paper evidence bag, then peeled off the latex gloves, and replaced them with a lined, leather pair, an early Christmas gift from his mom.

Something was very wrong with this crime scene. It hadn’t been a mugging; her phone and wallet were undisturbed in her bag, and she still wore her watch and jewelry. A crime of passion seemed unlikely, considering the circumstances. There was no overkill, no indication of sexual assault. If it was a hired hit, it was a sloppy one. Why would a killer move a body? Where exactly had she been stabbed?

He looked around again. Dawn was just lighting the sky as he examined the row of dumpsters, stray garbage, a makeshift shelter, and the graffitied walls and back doors to the pawn shops and check-cashing places. As crime scenes went, this one was utterly unremarkable.

He rubbed his sternum with his fist, attempting to soothe the persistent burn.

Probably just the shit coffee.

Beaufort, South Carolina

December 12

Outside, the storm battered the casement windows and shook the green shutters. Charlotte Devlin—Twitch to everyone who knew her—propped herself up on her elbows, her mass of red hair a snarl, her feet caught in the tangled sheets. Next to her, only the indentation of his big body and the scent of sandalwood lingered. Fitting. That was all that really remained of the Finn she once knew.

Twitch breathed in, then out, staring at the hairline crack that ran along the bedroom ceiling. Maybe she should thank him. He had shown her in no uncertain terms what they so briefly had, was gone. Their last night together had elicited so much resentment toward Finn and so much shame toward herself maybe she could finally slam the door on the possibility of Finn McIntyre. Because as much as her head had told her to throw the deadbolt, her heart couldn’t help but leave the door ajar.

Bang. Click. Her heart boot-kicked the door, and she watched with her mind’s eye as she flipped each metaphorical lock, slid the safety chain, and twisted the little button in the center of the knob. A new dawn was on the horizon, and while the weather did not mirror the sentiment, Twitch could feel the resolve flow through her.

She stripped the bed with more force than necessary, putting the sheets directly into the washer to purge the smell of sex and sweat and sandalwood. Then she went to her dresser and opened the small cloisonne box that held her most cherished things: a letter from her father, the earrings her mom had given her for graduation, a seashell she had found walking the beach with her best friend, Emily Bishop. She poked the items aside and fished out the locket.

It wasn’t expensive; seven years ago, he had bought it on the sidewalk from a vendor. The spot for the tiny photo was empty. At the time, they had promised to add their picture when he came back to her—foolish vows of childish infatuation. She set her thumb in the tarnished void. Before an ounce of sentimentality could leach its way into her heart, she plodded down to her kitchen, dropped the necklace into the disposal, and flipped the switch. The racket was unnerving, and Twitch was sure she had done irreparable damage to the appliance. Good. She didn’t care if she had to replace the whole damn sink. She needed closure, and if it wouldn’t come on its own, she was going to force it into existence.

Refocusing, Twitch dropped a pod into the Keurig. Bishop Security was heading to Spain to help their teammate, Cam Canto, with a situation that was becoming increasingly sticky. Cam was a former CIA officer who apparently had some lingering enemies from his undercover work. As concerned as she was for her colleague and friend, Twitch was grateful for the distraction to pull her mind from thoughts of Finn.

Their story was over. It was time to move on. She had lived the fairytale, and her handsome prince had turned into the big bad wolf. He had shown her in stark reality that what they had was gone. So, as she padded barefoot back upstairs and across the bedroom toward the shower, she gave Finn McIntyre a very soft, unspoken goodbye.

I-95 North

December 12

The steady swipe of the windshield wipers and the strains of an old Willie Nelson song were the only sounds in the cab of the semi. Conversation had been minimal—a mumbled, thanks for the ride, a muttered, it’s really coming down out there.

Finn McIntyre stared out into the night, the truck’s headlights illuminating the torrent of rain sheeting down on the winding highway. The passenger window in his periphery reflected the scars and burns marring the right side of his face. The trucker, a wizened good ol’ boy with a feed cap and full beard, drove with one hand and felt around between his legs for the other half of a candy bar.

Ten hours ago, Finn McIntyre hit rock bottom. Literally. After joking about a missing teammate and suggesting his friends go out to a bar while their brother needed them, Finn had stormed out of the rundown beach house and crashed through the rotted deck to the gravel and sand ten feet below.

What had pushed him over the edge that night wasn’t the shock and disappointment on the faces of his friends; it was the gut-wrenching realization that these men had dedicated themselves in the same way when Finn himself had been captured. Jonah Lockhart, a guy they called Steady because of his unwavering calm, had nearly thrown a punch. Andrew Dunlop, nicknamed Chat in a facetious nod to his laconic nature, had actually yelled. Leo Ren Jameson, their SEAL squad’s brilliant Renaissance man, had looked at him, dumbstruck with disappointment. And his best friend in the world, Miller Tox Buchanan, had begged Finn to get help.

Five years earlier, Finn had been injured in an explosion in Syria and taken captive by a small group of insurgents. He had been held in a cave, dangling and spinning like a fly strip while his captors poured bleach and rubbed rock salt into the deep gashes on his face. After 72 hours of hell, Tox had found him. Tox had come in like a six-foot, five-inch angel of death, killed every insurgent in a matter of minutes, then carried Finn ten kilometers to the exfil site. The depth of his gratitude was immeasurable. But there was a small part of Finn that wished his SEAL brothers had left him to die in that cave because, after his rescue, the sight in the mirror had caused him to vomit all over the floor of the hospital room. His face had looked like an illustration in an anatomy textbook.

And that, too, had birthed another wave of guilt and shame. Brothers in the ward had suffered catastrophic injuries. The guy in the hospital bed next to his had lost both legs. It was just his face. He had no right to wallow in self-pity, no right to his vanity, no right to grieve. So he boxed up the trauma and moved on.

Over time the scars had healed. No. That’s not it. The scars hadn’t healed; they had sunk—submerged like branches in quicksand, settling into his psyche. Over the weeks of his recovery and the years hence, he had gone from a kind, happy boy scout of a guy to a bitter, violent, festering ball of resentment. He had left the hospital in Landstuhl, Germany, haunted and alone.

And the one person he wanted to turn to, the one person he loved most in the world, was the one person he couldn’t face. Charlotte Devlin had fallen for a handsome, charming, idealistic sailor. Now he was none of those things.

He was ripe for the picking by the CIA.

After a year of training at Langley, Finn had spent three years working as a non-official cover (NOC) officer, tearing a swath of violence through the drug cartels of South America and Eastern Europe. The CIA had weaponized his rage, and he had been all too happy to oblige. When he finally lost his last shred of control and punched a superior at The Agency, Finn walked away. That’s when he showed up at his buddy Steady’s house, acted like a complete and utter jackass, and crashed through a deck.

There, sitting in the sand and blubbering like a baby, Finn had come to a decision. He had to find a way to get his head straight. After promising Tox he would get help and making a final stop to say goodbye to the one person who might care if he lived or died, he grabbed his go-bag and headed off on foot down the highway.

The trucker had offered him a ride as the first few drops of rain had started to fall. Storm clouds and fog hung like laundry lines of linens blocking the efforts of the dawning sun.

When the music became more static than song, the driver fiddled with the tuner, landing on a classic 80s station. The power ballad by the legendary band filled the silence of the cab.

Saw these guys at their millennium show, and they were old then. The trucker chuckled, pointing to the radio. Trevor debuted this song at that show. You wouldn’t have believed it. Fifty thousand people drinking and singing go completely silent listening to one guy at a piano singing about his baby daughter. Afterward, the place went nuts.

Finn half-listened as the gravel-voiced singer belted out the iconic love song as the rain fell in sheets across the windshield.

My wife and I are driving to Red Rocks to see their final show. It’s a long way to go, but I gotta be able to say I saw The Strain in their farewell performance. Shit, two of the guys are dead—and that’s not counting the drummer who O.D.ed in the eighties—and Trevor, Nolan, and Lamont are all in their seventies.

The driver prattled on until the signal once again faded to static. He shut off the radio and withdrew his phone from the breast pocket of his flannel shirt.

Gotta true-crime podcast going. Plug this in for me, will ya?

Finn took the device and plugged in the dangling charger cord as the eighteen-wheeler headed into a wide curve.

"My kids got me hooked on these things. CrimeBlazers. They give you the details and the timeline, and you try to solve the murder or robbery or whatever the case is. I’m working on a nightclub murder from the eighties. You really gotta pay attention because it’s never the first suspect—"

"LOOK OUT!!!" Finn yelled as the straightaway came into view, and dozens of cars littered the highway, crashed and splayed across the two lanes and the shoulder.

The trucker slammed on the brakes and turned to the right as Finn braced both hands on the dash. The semi veered to the shoulder as it jackknifed, the trailer skidding horizontally across the wet pavement. The cab moved sideways across the highway, crashing into the trunk of a sedan on the shoulder and continuing off the road, the momentum of the trailer pulling them forward as they skidded into the trees. Limbs thwacked the windshield as the eighteen-wheeler spun; the cargo container broke free of the trailer and tumbled across the ground, leveling everything in its path like a massive thresher.

After a slow-motion eternity, the cab barrelled into the trunk of a massive oak and slammed to a halt. The trailer continued its skid, pulling the truck back until it ground to a stop and tipped at an angle with a groan.

Finn looked over at the driver who was patting his body, checking to make sure he was still in one piece. The guy blew out a breath that was half raspberry, half-laugh. Well, shit.

Finn put his hand on the man’s shoulder. You got flares?

Yeah, case in the back.

When Finn turned to grab the emergency kit, the driver said, You okay? That’s a nasty gash.

Finn met the trucker’s gaze with confusion, then noticed the strange sensation on his neck. The nerves in his face were damaged, so he hadn’t felt the blood until it ran down into his collar. Swiping at his face with his upper arm, the sleeve of the T-shirt came away soaked. He probed the two-inch gash at his temple—his head had slammed into the metal handhold by the window—and dismissed the injury; he’d had worse.

Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s get those flares on the road.

Together the two men trudged back up to the highway as another car careened into the pileup. They hurried through the downpour and set flares at the mouth of the curve. The red and blue lights of the emergency trucks flashed in the distance.

Get that looked at. The driver tapped his own head over the feed cap. Head injuries are nothing to mess with.

Finn turned his back to the trucker. It’s fine.

The man didn’t argue further but ran ahead with a lit flare in his hand, waving down the first responders.

Finn needed to get out of here. He wasn’t undercover; he wasn’t on an op, but old habits die hard, and disappearing meant disappearing. He took in the scene one last time. A teenage girl was helping an old woman with a cane get clear of the cars. A black man moving faster than his size should have permitted ran past a young boy standing alone on the shoulder. Nobody was trapped. Nothing was on fire. Sparing one last glance at the kid standing alone, Finn turned and headed back to the semi. Grabbing his go-bag from the back of the cab, he set off into the woods.

The rain let up in the afternoon as Finn headed west. When the sun passed him on its journey, he sank down against a tree and fished a protein bar from his pack. Resting his head against the bark, he slowly chewed the tasteless meal and took in his surroundings.

Finn forced two deliberate blinks to clear his blurred vision. The forest was deep and quiet, yet the entire scene seemed encased in a shimmering veneer. Chalking it up to the last remnant of the rain and the fading twilight, Finn marveled at the ethereal setting. He felt the damp moss under his fingers, heard the gentle sounds of woodland life. Resting his head against the broad trunk of the oak, Finn closed his eyes. He thought of the wound on his head and wondered idly if he was dying. He breathed in the sweet, damp air, enveloped in a completely foreign but welcome feeling of contentment, and smiled.

If he was dying, that was okay.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

December 12

Making any progress, A-Mac? Aiden looked up to see Donna Vasquez leaning on his desk, her palms flat on the scattered paperwork. The veteran detective had short black hair, intelligent eyes, and, most importantly, a keen insight.

I tracked her Uber driver down; he confirmed he dropped Regina Phelps at the diner Sunday night. He didn’t see her go inside and didn’t see anyone join her.

Be nice to keep an eye out. Make sure she made it safely inside, Vasquez remarked.

Aiden agreed.

Vasquez walked around the desk and peered over Aiden’s shoulder at the file. And none of the cigarette butts in the alley were hers?

"She was wearing red lipstick, and I’m assuming she hadn’t finished the cigarette when she