Mask of Bone: The Chemist Series, #3

By Janson Mancheski

Having survived multiple attempts on his life in Italy and Belgium, Lt. Cale Van Waring gains solid intel on where his hometown kidnapped victims have been sold. He and his mercenary team lay siege to a wealthy Middle Eastern prince's lavish Belgium estate—filled with armed guards, sadists, perverts, and various other international deviants.

 

A massive battle ensues as Cale's team attempts a risky rescue operation to free the last of his remaining kidnapped victims. The Belgian national guard joins the fray, and Cale and his comrades barely escape with their lives.

 

With the final battle over, Cale and the rescued female (Leslie) fly exhaustedly back to Wisconsin, his promise to her family kept. Little does he know that the evil awaiting him at his home is far more sinister than the deadly assassins he's already encountered.

 

Reviews from online bookstores:

"Absolutely captivated by this book! Wrapping it all together from The Chemist and Trail of Evil in a brilliant page turner was no easy task! But Mancheski did it. Mask of Bone has outstanding internal character dialogue and is heart pounding exciting. I couldn't get enough or read it fast enough! I want to know what happens to Detective Van Waring and Maggie next! GREAT read!! This trilogy is highly recommended!"

 

"Outstanding!"

 

"Great thriller! You should read the whole "The Chemist Trilogy". What a winner! Each book in the trilogy is a page turner."

 

5.0 out of 5 stars

Excellent Conclusion to a Riveting Thriller

"In this third act of the trilogy, this story evolved into a crime thriller in a way I didn't see coming from the beginning of this journey, and it's every bit as tense and exciting as you could possibly want it to be. Where as the first book was heavier on the procedural side of the law (mixed with horror elements), and the second delved deep into the darkness of this hunt, the third dwells more in a supernatural realm between religion and voodoo, with a detour in the perverse world of human trafficking (and pony-girl shows). It's a dark, daring book that will keep you hooked to the last word, that is, if you can stomach it. All in all, this is a fantastic conclusion to a harrowing tale, and I can't wait for the next Van Waring volume."

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Chemist Publishing House
• Release date: Apr 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781950316182

Book preview

Mask Of Bone

Janson Mancheski

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Although Mask of Bone is written as a stand-alone novel, it also functions as the third book in The Chemist trilogy. Reading the stories in their chronological order, though advised, is not necessary. All three works follow the trail of Green Bay homicide investigator Lieutenant Cale Van Waring as he doggedly pursues an international ring of human traffickers.

Also by Janson Mancheski:

The Chemist

Trail of Evil

Mask of Bone

Drowning a Ghost

Shoot For the Stars

The Scrub

The Greatest Hits—Best of The Chemist Series

3rd Edited Edition

To James Exy Exferd, my University of Wisconsin-Oshkosh roommate, whose motto—If the right one don’t get you, then the left one probably won’t either—has proved a valuable life lesson for me over the years. RIP, old friend.

––––––––

MASK OF BONE

The Chemist Series – Book 3

Original Copyright  ©  2013 Janson Mancheski

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, movie script or screenplay or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author/publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Specific stock imagery is maintained. Cover design is the purchasing right of the author and can thus be reproduced only by the author or publisher or in advertising with the author’s legal permission.

Any people or persons depicted by Stock Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only. Any names used are purely coincidental and are considered fictitious for storytelling purposes.

MASK OF BONE - ISBN:    978-1-950316-01-4     

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013903611

Printed in the United States of America

Fearless Publishing House rev. Dates: 12/23/2019

TABLE OF CONTENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PART ONE: A CAUL BABY

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

PART TWO: THE BARCELONA TWIST

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

PART THREE: A LONG DAY’S JOURNEY INTO NIGHT

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Want more of the Chemist Series?

Check out this sneak peek of Greatest Hits – The Chemist Series

CHAPTER 1

PART ONE:

A CAUL BABY

CHAPTER 1

Green Bay, Wisconsin

The serial kidnapper stood at the top of the concrete steps outside the Brown County courthouse. He was shaved, wearing wire-rim glasses,  his hair shorter than his arrest photos from four weeks ago had shown. He was leaning on what the cops referred to as a sympathy cane.

The man was positioned a step behind his attorney, who addressed the crowd. Two tan-shirted county deputies stood to each side, their eyes scanning the angry, restless group of nearly a hundred citizens. Passionate shouts rang out: Murderer! Scumbag! You’re gonna fry, Crenshaw!

The media members had formed a semi-circle at the bottom of the front courthouse steps. This designated safety arc was enforced by uniformed patrolmen. It ensured that the man speaking—the attorney wore glasses and a wreath of grandfatherly gray hair—was allowed to state brief thank-yous to those responsible for letting his client out on bond.

It was one of those hazy May days, the sky non-committal. Cement-colored clouds approached from the west, summoning hints of spring rain.

The attorney droned on, expressing the importance of due process and fairness and examining relevant facts so no reasonable doubt could be left. It was a mini-lecture on legal ethics.

Screw you, Crenshaw! You murderer! someone shouted defiantly.

You’ll burn in hell, you scumbag!

Behind the attorney, Tobias Crenshaw’s expression remained blank. He’d been schooled at feigning disinterest, even as an unseen crimson dot appeared below his forehead hairline. His demeanor remained unfazed as the back of his head exploded, and he dropped to the ground like his strings had been snipped.

Only a faint cough sound was distinguished a millisecond prior, but no one watching would recall this soft noise amid the screaming and instant pandemonium breaking loose around them.

––––––––

The courthouse steps shooting had taken place the day before.

After twenty-four hours of techno analysts consolidating the data, putting together a timeline, reviewing angles, shadows, positions, and movements, the investigators were, at last, reviewing the finished production.

Inside the Green Bay Police Department’s Electronic Forensics/Tech Analysis lab, Detective James Slink Dooley watched the replay of the grisly event unfold. Five other tech officers inhabited the room, walking him through the various digital sequences. They were focused on the left of six monitors, all watching Tobias Crenshaw—the man dubbed The Chemist—take the bullet to his head and disappear from view.

It was Friday morning now, a little after seven a.m. Slink turned his attention to another screen showing Crenshaw’s prone body being attended to. The assassination, they all knew—if one chose to term it that—had taken place yesterday around noon.

The following monitor showed a different angle of the same event. It was a high-angle crowd shot from the left courthouse steps. Crenshaw had fallen at the nearly identical time that three shots rang out like tossed firecrackers. Media microphones and mobile phones had captured these. The shots were smothered an instant later by the shouts and screams of panic-stricken citizens.

A fourth monitor showed Detective Dooley the crowd's reactions, people scattering in all directions. A female shooter (age 23) fired the  pop-pop-pop gunshots that had created panic.

Slink eyed the monitor’s timer. A pair of men—one college-age and one older—wrestling the shooter to the ground amid the chaos.

Detective Dooley shifted to the next monitor, where now it was the media’s turn to panic. Shocked into reality, they were fleeing from the base of the courthouse steps. Some were bent halfway. Others scooted across the courthouse lawn, covering their heads while searching for an escape route.

Slink returned to the first monitor. The lone victim, Tobias Crenshaw, was attended by the officers and a few noble citizens. However, a point-blank shot to the forehead made the helpful amateurs quickly conclude that their efforts would turn out less than favorable.

There! Right there! 

Sergeant Peter Rosera called out to them all. Their heads turned as he pointed at the sixth monitor, magnified to provide Hi-Def images. Watch the foam covering. Right there! On the mic attachment.

Slink watched with the others as Rosera fiddled with a joystick. He zoomed in, increasing the image size, backing up the time to moments before the fatal shot. The zoom magnified a foam-covered, extended video microphone with a high-angle view from behind the target. The image revealed a BET cameraman aiming it at the courthouse steps. 

The sergeant magnified the image another two clicks.

Fifteen-point-four seconds, Rosera said, pointing at the screen. The felt covering is intact. He eased the joystick forward a fraction. Right here—fifteen-five....

The enlarged image showed the microphone’s foam fragmenting into pieces on the screen. The sergeant added, I was checking the CCTV feeds, trying to freeze the instant of the weapon’s discharge for the investigator’s benefit. Match it with the time-differential on the other digitals.

Excellent thinking, Slink said, impressed.

Pointing to the monitor again, Rosera added, Irrefutable evidence. The round came from his disguised firing apparatus.

The other techs oohed and aahed. A few clapped. They reversed it and played it a few more times.

Slink sipped from his coffee mug, first now noticing the aroma of coffee and crullers. He knew the microphone’s foam disintegrating image would be etched forever in his brain.

Slink said solemnly, Ballistics is confirming a through-and-through headshot. We’re guessing a nine-mill, that close a range.

I checked the CSU log, Rosera confirmed. They discovered a single nine-millimeter casing. Found on the sidewalk near the street curb.

Not the firing point? Judging from your video here? Slink motioned to the monitor.

Scene techs suspect it was kicked around by fleeing shoes.

After a beat, Slink said, The Hulbreth girl was carrying a .38-caliber. From her spot on the lawn, an impossible angle.

Rules her out as the shooter, then.

The techs in the room were silent, but heads nodded with relief.

Not entirely. Tech Tiara Thorp turned toward Slink. She had dark, pulled-back hair and high cheekbones. There’s no getting around the three rounds she unloaded.

That didn’t hit anything. This counter came from Rosera.

You’re both right, Slink said. No reports yet on what she might’ve hit.

Likely a tree or a car tire, Rosera said. CSU’s still combing the area. They should have something today.

I’ll break down the trajectory of the shots. This was offered by an Asian tech named Sudzinski. Our angle-pattern software can pinpoint where they might’ve wound up. I’ll feed the data over to the scene techs.

Slink gave the young man a nod.

Any chance they worked together? Thorp asked, arching dark eyebrows. A hired hit? Make a name for themselves somehow?

Like the guy who murdered Jeff Dahmer in prison? said Sudzinski.

"Too much CSI, Thorp," said Rosera with a scowl.

Sudsy’s got a point, Slink allowed. He issued Thorp a smile to show he wasn’t playing favorites. There’s no limit to online fame-seekers these days.

Sergeant Rosera sighed. At any rate, we’ve got a lone frontal shooter. Video confirmation. He pointed at the monitor showing The Chemist bleeding out on the courthouse steps.

"Another one bites the dust...." Sudsy sang off-key.

Slink turned and departed from the video room.

––––––––

Slink understood that finding both the courthouse shooter and method of killing in under twenty-four hours was excellent news for the case. Not to mention for himself, as its lead investigator.

Slink, however, refrained from patting himself on the back. Although he wanted to. Even yesterday, with Tobias Crenshaw’s body still warm, he’d had suspicions concerning the lone BET cameraman in the crowd. First off, the guy looked like a cross between a gorilla and a Komodo dragon—the tip-off was no visible neck. The second was the unlikely idea that an entertainment network like BET would send a camera crew to record a sociopathic kidnapper’s release from some county jail.

Even on the surface, it made little sense. So Slink’s suspicious nature had been elevated from the start.

To further confirm his suspicions, the evening before, he’d forwarded the enhanced photo images of the BET cameraman to a pair of separate resources. The first set was sent to Atlanta's Black Entertainment Television Network headquarters. The second copies were issued to the FBI’s evidence processing lab in Quantico, Virginia.

Slink arrived at his desk in the detective’s bullpen, flicking on his computer. He discovered a pair of new emails in his box. The first one stated that the BET Network’s Human Resources Department denied that the individual in the photo was either a current or past employee. No surprise there.

The second email proved even more fruitful. The FBI’s facial recognition software had provided them with a hit on their unknown suspect. A match returned positive for a fugitive already in their database, showing an existing Wanted for Questioning warrant. It belonged to a Liberian national who went by the solitary name of Kinsella.

You’ve got to be kidding, Slink said aloud.

Detective Anton Staszak was sipping from a tiny orange bottle at his desk across the aisle—a reputed energy concoction. His large, lumpy head was shaved due to recent cranial trauma and consequent surgery from injuries he’d suffered in the Chemist case.  Stasz swallowed the concoction, making a face like a man who’d just been tasered.

What, Dooley? You lose the Powerball again? Staszak’s eyes were still watering.

This is even crazier odds, Slink admitted.

Grabbing his desk phone, he punched in the number for Agent Eddie Redtail in Milwaukee. Redtail was head of the FBI’s Wisconsin Bureau and a friend of theirs. The agent had helped fast-track Slink’s partner, Detective Cale Van Waring, on his current search-and-rescue mission to Europe. Cale attempted to locate a pair of trafficking victims of the Chemist—two local girls named Leslie Dowd and Mary Jane Moore.

Agent Redtail had assisted in green-lighting Cale’s clearance through the higher-ups at the State Department and even helped expedite his passport, immunizations, credentials, and travel plans—the whole nine yards. Redtail provided as much support for Cale as he could manage within the boundaries of his authority.

The FBI man answered on the second ring. Slink said, You’re not going to believe this one.

Agent Redtail spoke in a measured voice. I’m FBI. I’m beyond surprise, Detective. Slink’s smirk went unseen. "Our Crenshaw shooter? We ID’d him. It turns out he’s the same perp Cale’s trying to locate on his trip—the Liberian national Kinsella."

Agent Redtail was likely processing the news. Seriously? The same suspect Crenshaw fingered? In the murder of your Vanderkellen girl?

Bingo!

Agent Redtail allowed intrigue to season his otherwise stoic voice. That would mean that the tip Crenshaw gave you guys was on the money, right?

So much so that he’s now lying in the trauma unit. Brain-dead, from what I’m hearing. Slink paused. Our boy Kinsella doesn’t take too kindly to being narc’d on.

Understatement of the year. The hint at dark humor was the closest Agent Redtail came to levity. Does Cale know about all this?

Slink glanced at his watch. "Not yet. I just got it. Besides, his phone’s been incommunicado."

In the meantime, then, Agent Redtail was tabulating on the fly. "I’ll

contact Homeland. They’ll issue an international warrant. But odds are your suspect’s long in the wind, Detective."

No surprise.

I’ll also notify ICE, the agent added. Tell them they’re dealing with the human trafficking angle. It should ramp their antennas up toward this Kinsella character.

Like many cops, Slink Dooley had little confidence in how federal law enforcement prioritized their efforts.

Detective, your case appears to have skyrocketed. Agent Redtail stated the obvious.

It’s why I called. Slink exhaled. Hoping you could pull a few strings up the chain.

Happy to help. Anything else?

Not for now. I’ll keep you up to date.

Redtail seemed not to be finished. When you talk to your partner Cale, Detective Dooley, better tell him to watch his butt.

Will do. Slink decided the agent knew Cale well enough to add, It’s a position he’s quite familiar with.

CHAPTER 2

Anzio, Italy

The steady whup-whup-whup of chopper blades—Cale Van Waring was being jostled about like a man trapped in the trunk of a speeding getaway car. The dream quickly faded as he awoke, yet the pain remained. Every muscle of his body sang a chorus of protest.

The rotating blade sound became a rhythmic door knocking outside his small sleeping quarters in a warehouse in Anzio, Italy. Not still a dream but close, Cale opened his eyes to see Cheetah standing in the doorway. She seemed ready to usher him back to reality. Her image reminded him of where he was and how near he’d come to not waking up with a pulse today.

She already knew his story, so there was no sense rehashing it.

Cale groaned at raising his head mere inches from his pillow.

Cheetah said with a clap, Let’s go, Detective. Chop, chop.

Cale rose to one elbow, shifting on the mattress. He surveyed the small room’s dingy floor. What time is it?

Friday afternoon. Almost two. You slept over five hours. She gave him an impatient look. Better move if you want to make the postal.

After he’d showered, re-bandaged his injuries, and donned a fresh set of military camos provided by his partner Jacek Tumaj—boots included—Cale limped his way down the hallway like a geriatric war veteran. He felt ninety years old as he entered the wide central area of the warehouse Jacek used as his headquarters.

––––––––

The inner area was a vast and shadowy expanse of open space, complete with support beams and dusty rafters. The ceiling was thirty feet high. The walls were undecorated concrete. A distance away from where Cale emerged, a trio of computer monitors was set on a pair of long tables. Jacek Tumaj, the Czech mercenary functioning as Cale’s European contact, guide, and bodyguard, sat at one station. Beside him were his partners, Cheetah and Pharaoh. They were all trained in hand-to-hand combat and weaponry and loyal to one another to the core.

The shuffle of his limping approach caught Jacek’s ear. Ah! If it isn’t Detective Lazarus back from the grave.

Cale shook his head. If you’re calling me a vampire, Jacek, I’ve been called worse.

"Remember, I’m Czech. We believe in the vampyr." He pronounced the word like Bella Lugosi.

Cale’s thigh and ribs were rebandaged. His forehead and jaw showed superficial lacerations. Jacek wasn’t far off: he did appear as if a member of the walking dead. Still, Cale grinned at the man who’d saved his life less than twenty-four hours ago.

At any rate, you look better than I feel. Cale conceded.

"Pshee. Haven’t we all seen better days, eh?"

Two legs and upright—my motto till the end.

Speaking of which. Jacek spun in his chair. After everything the past few days, sorry if I pictured you catching a comfy flight back to the States.

Cale fingered his bandaged rib. Was Jacek testing him? Assessing his mettle to continue their hunt for the murderer, Kinsella?

After surviving Colonel Mabutu’s pet eels, I’ve decided I must have nine lives. He shrugged. So why not risk a couple more with my new friends?

Jacek smiled and motioned him to an empty chair. Besides, the Czech added, you run from a fight with the devil, you end up his little sissy.

His colorful philosophy caused Pharaoh, the oversized mesomorph with olive-toned skin, to half-smile while tapping at his keyboard. Cheetah gave them both an eye roll, shaking her head.  

Cale imagined their humor amounted to praise for not bailing on the mission. If so, praise from this band of warriors was worthy of whatever aches and pains he’d suffered. All three returned to tapping their keyboards, intent on discovering whatever data would help their cause.

By the way, Cale said. Can I borrow a cell phone? Mine got fried if you recall. The sinewy fighter with weapons-grade fingernails, Cheetah handed him a burner phone.

Jacek gave him a slight head jerk. On the table over there is what’s left of our lunch buffet. Help yourself.

Cale limped the thirty feet to the buffet, following his nose toward the lone meatball sub on a sandwich tray. It was taunting him. He glanced at his watch. Six hours ahead here in Italy. His partner, Slink Dooley, would be at the station by now in the Midwest.

After swallowing a bite of the sub, Cale punched in the number and waited for the long-distance exchange to connect. While waiting, his brief, late-night conversation with Maggie rushed back to him in a flash of disjointed memories:

The Chemist—aka Tobias Crenshaw—had been shot in the head. The incident had taken place on the steps of the Green Bay courthouse. She’d relayed to Cale the news very late last night—like six a.m.—while he was barely coherent from the six-hour flight back from Africa.

Since it was Maggie, Cale’s fiancé, there was no doubt the event had occurred. While he trusted her implicitly, wasn’t there an outside chance he might’ve dreamed the entire thing? Hallucinated it? Cale had been sparring with delirium when their plane had landed in Naples.

Therefore, he desired confirmation from his partner Slink that the shooting had taken place. Slink answered his phone the second ring: Dooley.

On an unfamiliar overseas call, Cale guessed he sounded like a ghost. Figured you might like an update?

Geez, Cale, Slink stammered, alerting himself. I’m swimming in this Crenshaw shooting. By the way—what the heck happened to you?

I’ll tell you over a twelve-pack sometime. Cale added, Maggie told me about the courthouse shooting.  

His partner didn’t waste any time, diving in with the information about Tobias Crenshaw’s public assassination—shot point-blank in the forehead from twenty yards. He remained in ICU on life-support. Odds said he’d be a vegetable, even if his body managed to survive.

Pity I’m not there to yank the plug, myself. Cale knew it sounded morbid and didn’t care. The guy was a rapist sociopath.

There’d be fifty people in line ahead of you. Slink’s remark lacked humor as well. But who’s counting, right?

Including yourself?

My hands, his neck, Slink said determinedly. I’d enjoy witnessing his  final breath.

Cale pondered this while his partner reported that they’d already ID’d the primary shooter via the FBI's facial-recognition software. Hope you're sitting down for this, Slink offered.  Believe it or not, it’s our man Kinsella—the one and only.

He allowed Cale a moment to process this fact over the many miles between them. He added, So it looks like we’re working the same case, after all.

Kinsella? The news dumbfounded Cale. You’re yanking my chain, right?

Not yanking anything. We ID’d him via CCTV on the courthouse lawn. Nine-millimeter suppressed. Quantico verified the ID.

Cale frowned. Maggie’s news about Crenshaw’s execution had been surprising enough. But Kinsella? It was the same man he was currently pursuing five-thousand miles away in Italy. The man Tobias Crenshaw had fingered as the real killer in the Chemist kidnapping spree.  

He’s been a step ahead of us. Slink was frustrated. Maybe two or three steps.

Son of a—

That’d be a right-on summation.

Unease wrapped around Cale as they ended the call. He promised to provide Slink with updates when he could manage. The simple fact remained that Kinsella had played them for fools while Cale was chasing halfway around the world after him. He had doubled back to the Midwest and publicly executed Tobias Crenshaw before the man could stand trial for his crimes. It made the cops look like F-Troopers.  

And especially Cale, who was sitting two continents away.

After ending the call, Maggie’s words arose in his mind now, a version of the ancient I-told-you-so. As Cale contemplated his trip to Europe earlier this week, she warned: You can’t go off trying to save the world, Cale. You’re not some superhero.

He was glad she wasn’t on the line