Harry Watson: Harry Watson, #1

By M. Jones

Somewhat gender fluid FBI Agent Harry Watson is hot on the trail of serial murderer The Sandman, only to find herself in Trinity, Nova Scotia.  Trapped in this snowglobe of a place, she meets Maurice Harding, whose brother was attacked by The Sandman, and who may not be finished with Maurice's tiny family just yet.

 

But Maurice has secrets that add layers of complexity to the case, and with the looming threat of another madman set to destroy his family, it's up to Harry Watson to drive the monsters out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. Jones
• Release date: Dec 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215432754

M. Jones

M. Jones has been published in various venues, both online and in print, with a heavy emphasis on horror fiction and speculative, weird fiction. M. Jones has worked as a sous chef, was in nursing, did web design (good ol' css!), graphics design for brochures/newsletters, professional baker, owned and edited the short lived ezine The Random Eye, ran several web serial sites, was an author for BigWorldNetwork.com, a reviewer for TheSlaughteredBird.com and is a stubborn indie mind doodler. Currently a dog and plant mom and an avid coffee drinker/addict. What people have to say about the work of M. Jones: GANGSTER. Originally published by 1889Labs. REVIEWS: "A good story from the start, I like the fact that there was action from the start of the book, and just kept going. Kept you reading wondering what would happen next with our favorite alien. " -Amazon reviewer FRANKIE & FORMALDEHYDE published by Bloodletters Ink REVIEWS: "I give Frankie and Formaldehyde 5 enthusiastic stars and recommend it to all zombie and horror fans who like a little brains with their blood and guts." Zoe E. Whitten, author, Goodreads review WESTMARKET published by Bloodletters Ink "Westmarket is not your typical zombie apocalypse story. The action of the story takes place in and around a big box store that bares a striking resemblance to another store that starts with a "W". The author rotates point of view in the third person throughout the story and by using this device, the characters are well developed by the time the major action of the story begins. Overall a very interesting read and I would recommend to anyone who likes zombie and apocalypse books." - The Eclectic Bookworm, Amazon.com review.

Book preview

chapter one

What one doesn’t understand about art is a blind spot in that person’s empathy.

He couldn’t disagree with her. Maurice Harding stood back from the large piece he was being asked to consider and gave it a pondering once over. The artist was amateur, though he’d had some small success in galleries in Winnipeg, and had a prestigious art grant given to him for a neighbourhood project in downtown Montreal which had earned some media attention. But who wasn’t getting grants for street graffiti these days? Maurice stood back and took a long view of the painting before him, taking in the delicate lines of the bent, abstract figure laying slightly off centre within the large canvas. He wasn’t fond of the dull use of pastels, but the figure was one that provoked feeling in the viewer, a sense of loneliness and longing being just the sort of thing most people with deep pocketbooks snatched up when marketed right. He knew he had the Gallery’s board wrapped around his finger with this piece, the sound of clanging coins beating out the obvious problems with the painting, (its lack of colourful punch, for one, and its large size) and he was hoping they would overlook its flaws. The selling problem was exacerbated by the artist’s wish to make the painting one of a set, a massive trilogy of three such identical paintings all in washed out pastels with the same central figure moved in slightly different positions. Instead of invoking loneliness, the three images together looked more like a crime scene sketch.

He would have to convince the artist to keep his work separated.

I think this one will do, especially for our spring opening. We’ll be getting the Descartes ink drawings on loan which will be our big draw and this addition could be propped in the canteen lobby. The pastel colours evoke feelings of spring, and you know how we only get the blue haired set in during the week. Agnes Grey, the Halifax Gallery Group curator crossed her arms as she stood beside Maurice. She was a red haired woman with a fiery countenance, and though she was now in her late fifties there was no mistaking the latent hippie influences on her, making her a generation too late. Wearing a dark green skirt and sporting flashy round glass globes dangling beneath her ears, her beige corduroy jacket was out of place with her seeming sophistication, a purposeful lack of congruence that Janis Joplin herself would have found overdone. She was so earthy in appearance if she leaned against a tree one would find it difficult to differentiate the two. Agnes was a twining, thickening around the middle, woodland witch who read contemporary Canadian poetry (but nothing beyond 1975) and who had a keen sense of how to sneak in large grants for art projects, no matter how over hyped they ended up being. It was getting harder lately to promote the arts, budget cuts holding more sway than her fervent influence, a lack of wonderment and inclusion into the world of art becoming epidemic. She lamented the lack of deep spirit permeating the universe. Shallow pop songs and flashy films had taken over, obscuring the gentle beauty she longed for the information overloaded youth she mentored to take hold of. Maurice found her altruism endearing, but in the end, impractical.

The Descartes has proved to be quite a hefty rental, Maurice reminded her, and she gave him a narrowed, annoyed look over the rim of her glasses, green eyes nearly hidden beneath ridiculously round, thick orange plastic frames. As you are well aware, I was hoping the board would reconsider its display. It’s nothing more than a simple sketch of his theories on the magnetic field, he was a philosopher and not an artist. While I appreciate his influence on modern art, on the concept of humanity being in a reality that is in a constructed, personally warped view, I still don’t believe it’s a good fit for our Gallery and the ideas he presents are too obscure for the average visitor here. I hope you have budgeted in the promotional material for it. Crash courses in metaphysical philosophy are going to be a hard sell.

Of course I have, she snapped, which, Maurice thought with a tired, unexpressed sigh of disappointment, meant she hadn’t.

They were a vast contrast, for Maurice was clearly the business end of their tiny, insular art world, decked in an expensive well cut suit in dark grey by Burberry, a pair of well polished, jet black Italian leather shoes and his peacock whims indulged with a bright lavender tie and a carefully folded matching handkerchief in his upper right suit jacket pocket. He knew it was important to be the business face of the Gallery, an assurance that the money they scraped together was spent wisely, promoting artists in the region and generating much needed investment. He had a meeting with several board trustees next week, and he was confident they were going to like his suggestion they utilize more public buildings for strategic works. The newly renovated library was a prime candidate for showing off what their gallery could provide, and an excellent resource for additional investors. A wider variety of investors meant they needn’t rely on the influence of their most intrusive bloated bag of money, namely real estate tycoon Richard Alansi. Maurice swallowed back bile at the very thought of him and he pushed the image of the man’s large, red face and ignorant bullying from his mind. If they wanted that bloody bastard’s money so badly, the board could deal with him, he had no wish to have any contact with the brute. The Descartes had been his idea, of course, though he little understood what the philosophy behind the man meant. Maurice knew his game, Alansi was hoping to resell the simple sketch for a larger sum after giving it some pumped up hype. It could have been a can of soda for all he cared of its influence on art and modern thinking. Richard Alansi didn’t care much for either of those virtues.

So what’s the final verdict? Agnes asked him, nodding at the piece in front of her.

Maurice gave it a shrug. It has some market value, but other than that, I’m not seeing much. We can buy the one, but as for the other two, he has to break them up. I know our troubled Mr. Gravestone believes he has a vision, but the draw of the viewer’s empathy is more for the solitary image.

He’s not going to like that, Agnes complained.

I’ll deal with him, Maurice said, giving her a small smile that instantly stole the worry from her face. She gave his arm a small squeeze in thanks, her pink nails complimentary to the grey hue of his suit jacket.

You’ve saved my life so many times, I don’t know why I even question your judgment.

I’ll be sure to bring my cape next time.

You should have brought one today. What a muck of a day it is out there! Snow blowing off the pier, piles of the stuff that keeps getting bigger no matter how many times they dig it up. Is it this bad up where you are? All we ever do this time of year is talk about the weather. People think we’re dumb for it, but the facts are, it’s so changeable and vicious we’ve become obsessed with it through heredity. It’s a survival instinct to complain about the snow. What victim doesn’t rail against its attempted murderer?

Maurice lightly laughed at this as he accompanied her out into the lobby of the gallery, his mirth tempered by the sheets of white blowing in fierce rage across the outside windows. Though he’d moved to Nova Scotia from London, England over twenty years ago, a continental shift that had brought his younger brother with him and swept all manner of privileged Britannia away, the unforgiving harshness of East Coast winters never released its shocking grip on his senses. He had a long drive back to Trinity, the small, tourist trap of a village he lived in, where a collection of Victorian era homes were perched at the top of a cliff face at the halfway point between Peggy’s Cove and Lunenberg. It was an isolated post, but he didn’t mind the smallness of it, the residents mostly commuters like himself while those who lived and worked in the village owned tourist properties, mostly pottery shops and pubs and a small gallery/museum just off the centre of Main St. that was run by the province. In summer it was bustling with tourists, mostly from the States, with smatterings from England and Germany. English visitors always got a thrill hearing a familiar accent. Though there were some linguistic familiarity, he’d discovered himself the inflections of some of the more regional areas in Nova Scotia became lyrical and strange, the mixture of cockney, French, Scottish and Irish becoming a language all its own as one went further north along the East Coast.

That’s going to be one hell of a mess to drive in, Agnes said, shaking her head as she stared out the gallery window, the blowing snow obscuring what he knew was a beautiful vista of urban ocean. He shivered and wrapped his hand around the keys in his pocket, suddenly eager to get the travel over with and find his way home. Staying overnight in Halifax wouldn’t be a terrible option, but he had Joy to get home to and the thought of missing more time away from her filled him with a sense of desperate despairing.

Agnes gave him a concerned frown, her pink nails worrying at her brown beads, little carved wooden marbles with Tibetan motifs. Send me a text at least, to let me know you got home all right. You know how I worry.

I will, Agnes. And thank you.

I need a shot of something harsh just to think of crossing the street in that. She gave his shoulder a warm squeeze. Drive safe.

*

Halifax is a nightmare to drive through on the most pleasant and clear of days, so it was with great relief when the city was finally behind him, its strange roundabouts and narrow, cliff-like roads receding in his rear view mirror in sheets of white ice. He’d driven past numerous accidents, and even now there were people stuck in banks along the way, crooked headlights glowing in the dim, blowing wasteland. He’d stopped a couple of times to ask if anyone needed assistance, but he was waved away, cell phones held aloft as tow trucks had already been called, or nearby relatives were coming to the rescue. No, he was not going back to Halifax tomorrow if this kept up, whatever deals that needed negotiating could be done through Skype. A quick glance at his cell phone told him he was going to be busy with his fussy artist anyway. The man had sent him thirty-two texts within the last couple of hours. Agnes must have informed him about their plans for displaying his work and Gravestone was angry the trilogy was to be broken up. He would read the artist’s concerns when he got home. Whenever that would be. The weather had already stretched an hour’s long commute into two and a half.

It was with great relief when he finally made it into Trinity, the thin streets heavily buried and several cars abandoned and blocking his way to his home, which he could see through a sliver of ice on his windshield. There were several people on the road, and one heavily bundled figure in particular waddled up to his car, a shovel held aloft. The snow was so heavy his tires slipped and crunched within it, and the figure held up frosty thick mittens, bidding him to stop trying.

A muffled knock met his driver’s window and Maurice rolled it down, snow whipping into the car like a swarm. What’s going on, Janine?

Janine huffed a steam of breath through her thick knitted scarf, her face completely obscured beneath it. Just people being stupid fucks. You can see the snow, right? All weather tires, they don’t work for shit in this kind of crap. Look, I hate to tell you this, but you’re going to have to pull to the side as best you can and dig your car out in the morning. Couldn’t get a plough through with these ones stuck here. See that old Ford, the one sitting smack in the middle? Old Jessup’s wreck. He’s eighty-seven years old and has glaucoma, he’s not even supposed to be driving! She shook her head, the action barely perceptible beneath the many layers of warmth her body was wrapped in, the thick parka she wore padded beneath with a couple of sweaters, the frayed, knitted cuffs peaking through the ends of her parka’s sleeves. The local tow trucks are all taken up with the morons on the highway. We go through this every damned year, I can set my watch by it. What is wrong with people? It’s fucking stupid. I half think people get a special kind of snow dementia, they forget it can pile up.

Maurice gave her a small smile at this, but he wasn’t feeling especially cheery as he forced his car to shift slightly to the right before it was fully wedged into the snowbank. He turned off the engine and waited for the car to sigh into silence before he undid his seat belt and braced himself for a terrible trudge through knee deep drifts. He could see his stately, Victorian home at the end of the street, the lights on in his living room and beckoning his return, but it was his Italian leather shoes that balked at the prospect of the journey to get there.

Janine tutted when he opened the car door and made his way out of it. Here I thought you had some common sense, but you’re just as bad. Not even a pair of boots! Gonna freeze your damned feet off. Her bulk stepped back as he braced himself, already shivering, the wind whipping against every measure of exposed skin, piercing the tips of his ears. He grimaced into the cold, and tried to bury his chin in his, admittedly, slender and ineffective wool scarf.

How long is this supposed to last? he asked her.

She might have shrugged, it was hard to tell under all those layers.

Who the fuck knows? I just know I’ll be stuck here most of the night, digging out morons. Dan’s busy out on the Main Street, corralling all the cars that are stuck in ditches and clogging up the main artery of the town, so I told him I’d help out. His RCMP outpost is the only cop shop around here for a few miles and he’s been doing it all solo since that last guy took off for Alberta a month ago. Still no replacement, can you believe that? At least no one went over the pier this time but like my boy Danny says, the night’s young yet. I didn’t think traffic cop was the main thing to go on my resume when I became mayor of this place, but what can you do?

Maurice grimaced an acknowledgment and began his journey through the blowing drifts, his steps slow and unsteady, his toes frozen after only a few moments of exposure. Holding his scarf tight against his face and his leather gloves tight around the handle of his briefcase, Maurice forced his way through the blowing tundra and wondered how it was anyone was foolish enough to settle in this unforgiving geography, and how much of a fool was he himself to have been swayed by pretty scenery, heedless of the fact that spring and summer had far briefer lifespans than this frozen misery.

His fingers shook as he reached for the front door, only for it to be wrenched open as strong, wizened arms clutched at his shoulders and dragged him inside.

Cold as a witch’s tit! Ann-Marie exclaimed, tutting over his wet scarf and the state of his good shoes. She already had her coat on, and a thick pair of mitts, along with no-nonsense boots that Janine Yeats, Trinity’s mayor, would approve of. You should have seen it, that old fart Jessop trying to drive his way through that mess! He went back and forth across the road like that for hours, until the gas ran out!

Janine said he’s not supposed to be driving.

Well if he’s somehow managed to keep his license it’ll be gone now. Poor old bastard. He’s lost his sense, I’m sure of it. He’s never been the same since his wife died those two years ago, she was always the one who told him what to do. He’s just like that car, all lost in life without her. She looked up at him, her rotund figure sighing in both relief and exasperation. Joy went down for a nap earlier, but she’s up now. Your brother isn’t home, of course. No word on what he’s up to.

Considering the condition of the roads, he’s probably still in Halifax, Maurice said, though the fact bothered him. He knew, of course, exactly where his brother would be if that was the case and yes, it would be best if he stayed as far away as possible. Ann-Marie gave him a sympathetic look, for she was also well aware what that kind of protracted city visit would mean for Sebastian.

He hasn’t texted you at all? Ann-Marie asked.

No.

You calling around to his little addict friends to find him, then?

Maurice sighed. No. I am not. The last time I did he got quite violent over my interference and I’m not making that mistake again. He knows he’s not to come here when he’s high, and I guess that’s where we have to leave it.

He lifted his brows as he made his way out of the narrow little front boot room and into his living room, where a warm fire was lit and a far happier sight was there to greet him. Joy, in her playpen, transfixed by the dancing orange flames, barely noticed his approach, and she giggled in infant surprise when he snatched her up and tickled her cheek with the tip of his still cold nose.

And you thought it was Daddy coming home! It’s Jack Frost come to nibble you! He delighted in her happy squealing, her tiny fingers clutching at his cheeks, warming them.

Ann-Marie stood on the other side of his antique couch, watching them with a sense of contentment. The firelight lit upon her delicate wrinkles, creased deeply as she smiled on them both. Her thick, grey hair was tied in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, a pair of reading glasses dangling across the expanse of her ample breasts on a length of chain. She was a short, stout woman, shaped like an apple with stovepipe legs. She’d been an elementary schoolteacher before she’d retired fifteen years ago, and with no children of her own and having outlived most of her family, her adoption of Maurice and his troubled clan was a miracle he was forever grateful for. He couldn’t ask for a better neighbour. Ann-Marie would balk at that moniker, she knew she was family.

It was cozy here for us all day. I made some biscuits for you, and I put a stew on in the crock pot. I thought about making bread again, but you still got that loaf from Monday. Make sure you eat something, put some meat on those bones of yours, little twigs snap in this kind of weather.

Ann-Marie, you are my angel.

Go to. I get to be a grandma, I’m the one who’s grateful. She gave Joy a wet smack on her chubby cheek and then a small hug to Maurice before stepping back and sliding on her scarf, thick feet stomping in her boots. You going in to the city again tomorrow?

Unlikely, Maurice said, shrugging.

I’ll come by for tea later in the morning, then.

She gave them a combined, squishy hug and then made her way out the front door, snow following her. Maurice watched her from the front window as she carefully made her way to the small house next door on the left, a soft kiss placed on Joy’s forehead as Ann-Marie’s front door opened and closed behind her.

Joy nuzzled into his neck, and he sighed into her pleasant weight, the worry over his brother still nagging him. Sebastian hadn’t texted him once, an odd omission considering how keen he would have been to extract some money from his cash strapped older brother. The fact he viewed Maurice as a constant source of banking for his deadly habits and conveniently forgot he was living off of the steam of his brother’s assets was a point of contention that often erupted into violent arguments between them.

What shall we do tonight then, my little lovely? he said to Joy, who stared back at him with eyes the same hue as waves on the ocean, her fingers clutching at his moving lips. Family genes were strongly on Maurice’s side, and she already possessed many of his features, including his dark, near black hair and the shape of his long nose. Her cheeks were chubby now, but it would be easy to see how they would become lean as the baby fat left her, his own hawk-like appearance reflected back as perfectly as a mirror. He balanced her on his hip as he walked into the kitchen, the stew Ann-Marie had made a mouthwatering mixture of potatoes and cabbage and cured meat, with soft dumplings dotting its surface in fluffy white globs. He couldn’t stop himself from thinking of his brother, again, and wondered if the idiot had managed to get something to eat.

He lifted the lid off of the crock pot, sending a steaming, delicious waft free. Joy clutched his chin.

Moo.

Delicious, isn’t it? Granny Ann has outdone herself.

Moo. Moo.

He was spooning a healthy portion of the offering onto a plate when his cell phone buzzed, and Maurice paused, placing the plate down and checking his phone before placing Joy in her high chair and strapping her in at the kitchen table. He frowned over the number, and, with deep reluctance, he answered it.

Mr. Gravestone, I have already told you, there is nothing further to discuss.

The voice that answered him was both pleading and shaky, and Maurice rolled his eyes, knowing a good spate of drama was coming his way. They need to be a trilogy…

Mr. Gravestone…

You don’t understand! That’s the vision! You can’t have one without the other, they are a balancing act, they tell the whole story! The lines, the angles, it’s all there! You can’t break my pictures up! The pleading voice on the other end of the line became fierce. I’ll rip them from you! You can’t have them!

We have had this exact discussion too many times for me to count, Mr. Gravestone, and I’m afraid if you keep pushing for this, I will give you your wish and I will withdraw your collection. Maurice sat at the kitchen table, the plate of stew before him suddenly unappetizing with this peevishness attached. He rubbed his fingertips at his temples, sighing into the fight. I have to advise you that this is the last time I’m going to have this argument with you. Every time I try to get a viewing for your work, you pull this routine, and I no longer have the patience. You accept the terms, you break up the paintings, or there is to be no viewing at all, do you understand?

There was a protracted silence at this as the man stewed in fury over the railroading of his vision, one that Maurice knew was terribly flawed and unmarketable.

At the end of the day, even artists have to pay rent. I’ll think about it, was his answer and the call ended.

Maurice sighed and tossed his cell phone beside his plate on the kitchen table, Joy giving him a quizzical gurgle that he smiled at in return. She was having a wonderful time smashing a cooled dumpling in her grip, chewing and smearing it all over herself. She’d be earning a nickname if she kept this up. Yummy, isn’t it? I should get Ann-Marie to call you dumpling. Little Dumpling Joy, that can be your full name, what do you think of that?

Joy reached out for him, giggling. Moo.

You are a sticky, messy little thing! Bath time, and then I think someone will be ready for the sandman.

The wind howled outside the windows of his stately Victorian home, the panes rattling as ice pummelled against the glass. He was still wearing his suit, though it had shed much of its formality as the night wore on. Tie gone, that was first, accompanied by the jacket now hung over the kitchen chair, matching waistcoat tossed over it, rolled sleeves and a partially unbuttoned white shirt as he settled Joy, giving her a happy bath filled with strawberry scented bubbles, her squeaky clean newness wrapped up in a fluffy towel and then in an equally fluffy jumper. She was sleepy as he held her, the weight of her head pressed against the nape of his neck. He kissed her tiny forehead before placing her in her crib, baby monitor turned on and one last, longing look at her angelic repose, her hands spread out in a startle reflex that continued to seek out love.

Six months old and she was the love of his life, he knew this, the loneliness of that existence of what was before compared to what she brought after a chasm that