Pump Fake

Beck Michael

Description

Special Forces veteran Mark Tanner's latest job is protecting New York Turbos quarterback, Troy Decker. When Tanner begins to delve into Decker's past he finds no record of Decker's high school football career. Is Decker lying about where he came from? Tanner follows a tantalizing trail across time and distance, to a small cabin nestled deep in the Rockies. Every Thanksgiving, five carefree, teenage friends made a pilgrimage to the cabin. Until nine years ago, when something dark and evil occurred that forever changed their lives. Since then, bad luck and death has followed them. But what does that weekend] have to do with the recent attacks on a famous quarterback?Fourteen years ago Tanner's parents were viciously murdered and his younger sister left with a traumatic brain injury. The killer was dubbed "Cupid" by the police. Tanner's current assignment is complicated when Cupid strikes again. His investigation takes him through Cupid's dark, twisted past to reveal an unspeakable horror.Tanner must learn the truth. The truth about his parents' deaths, the truth about what happened in the mountain cabin so long ago. But what is the truth? Why did a young girl leave her friends and walk into a blizzard to her death? Why did Cupid's victims invite him into their homes? And who is behind the attempts on Tanner's life? The truth can set you free. But Tanner discovers it can also kill. In an explosive finale, the truth reaches out from beyond the grave and Tanner must use every survival instinct he has to fight the deadly embrace of a truth that reaches out beyond the grave.

Sujets

• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Uncial Press
• Date de parution: 15 novembre 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781601741714
• Langue: English

Extrait

PUMP FAKE
 
By
Michael Beck
 
 
Uncial Press       Aloha, Oregon 2013
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are productsof the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Anyresemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirelycoincidental.
ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-171-4
Pump Fake Copyright © 2013 by Michael Beck
Cover design Copyright © 2013 by Judith B. Glad Ice photo: ©Argus12 | Dreamstime.com Blood photo © mizina - Fotolia.com
All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work inwhole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known orhereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated bythe FBI and is punishable by up to five (5) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Published by Uncial Press, an imprint of GCT, Inc.
Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com
 
For Jordan, Corey, Shayannah, Indiana, Jet, Jaguar and Phoenix.
 
Pump Fake: a simulated action whereby a quarterback fakes a pass, drawing theopposition out of position, before completing a pass to a receiver.
CHAPTER 1
June 2011
Anna Gilliam was thirteen years old, had long blonde hair, loved chocolate chip icecream and disappeared eighty yards from home on a sunny, New York summer's day.
Her mom had sent Anna and her fifteen-year-old sister, Nicole, off to the local cornerstore in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, to buy ice cream as a treat. The shop was only a block away, butthat was all it took.
As they normally did, Anna and Nicole took their Rottweiler, Sheba, with them. Theywere laughing as Sheba, who weighed one hundred and thirty pounds, nearly pulled Anna offher feet, such was his excitement at the scent of a walk. As their mom, Shirley, watched themdisappear up the nice, middle class street, inhabited by nice, friendly neighbors she couldn'thelp but think how lucky she was. Two perfect golden girls with their whole lives in front ofthem.
Sheba, as was his wont, did his business on Mrs. McKay's front lawn. The girls said helloto Mrs. McKay who, as she did most days, was sweeping the leaves off her lawn, dropped by thehuge sycamores that lined the street. Mrs. McKay smiled at the girls as they held their noses andplayed rock, paper, scissors to see who would pick up after Sheba with the plastic bag theycarried. They played five times because, each time Nicole lost, she would laughingly accuse Annaof cheating. Anna won every time. Anna had always been the lucky one.
They swept past the house on the corner where Mr. Mann worked under the bonnet ofhis much loved '68 Ford Mustang. He never saw the girls but heard their footsteps and laughteras they ran by. Sheba barked loudly causing Mustang Sally, his ginger striped cat, to jump ontothe hood. Startled, he reared up, and struck his head.
Mrs. Ving, a thirty-eight-year-old Thai immigrant and mother of four troublesome boysand one patient daughter, served the girls at 3:00 p.m. in Mal's drug store. Mal had sold out tothe Thai family two years ago but the sign still remained above the door. Nicole had honeycomband Anna chocolate chip. In the two years Mrs. Ving had owned the store, that was the onlyflavor Anna had ever tried on her weekly trips. Anna loved the crunchy chocolate bits. At homeshe swore by chocolate flavored milk, hot chocolate drinks and Nutella sandwiches. She wasalso prone to hiding the odd chocolate bar in her bedside drawer for when she got hungry lateat night. Her mom had no idea how she stayed so slim with white, perfect skin. Just lucky, sheguessed.
Mrs. Ving's daughter, Afre, chatted to Anna. They both were in the seventh grade atEdison Elementary and were taught by Mrs. Dawson, whom they adored because she wasyoung, pretty and told them funny stories about her time teaching in Kenya. Anna thought theboys in her class were silly because they only thought about playing basketball at lunchtime andnever tried to do well in class. Anna loved all of her classes.
Anna told Nicole she was going to hang out with Afre for a while. Sheba sat on the floorhappily munching on a cow bone that Mrs. Ving always had waiting for him. Nicole left Anna andSheba at the shop and arrived home at 3.10 p.m.
Afre watched from the doorway as Sheba catapulted Anna down the footpath towardshome. A strong wind swept through the open door and under her dress so she quickly shut thedoor. Afre couldn't be sure but she didn't think there were any cars or pedestrians. Through thefrosted glass, she could see a blurry Anna running behind Sheba towards home.
And that was the last time anyone saw thirteen-year-old Anna Gilliam before she wasreported missing.
* * * *
Anna's uncle, Ben Hiffaunhouse, rang me as I was just packing up gear from a fitnessclass my partner Bear and I had run in Prospect Park, Brooklyn.
"Yeah?"
My phone manner had improved a lot since Bear told me I needed to work on it, nowthat we were taking in many major companies. Before, I would have just grunted.
"Mark. It's Ben Hiffaunhouse. Bear gave me your number." The diffidence in his tonedidn't surprise me. The last time Bear had seen Hiffaunhouse it ended with Bear holdingHiffaunhouse by the feet over the balcony of his one-story apartment.
Hiffaunhouse ran a fledgling fitness company that had approached many of our clients,trying to undercut us. When Bear heard, he paid Hiffaunhouse a visit. Hiffaunhouse was short oninches and long on chutzpah. He barely came up to Bear's chest, which wasn't unusual as Bearwas six and a half feet tall. This didn't deter Hiffaunhouse from abusing Bear, arguing that theylived in a democracy and that all clients were fair game. Bear, contrary to his name, is a gentlesoul but five minutes alone with Hiffaunhouse was too long by four and a half minutes. Yes,these were two fitness trainers and not two characters from The Godfather. According to Bear,the last he saw of Hiffaunhouse, the man was screaming that he was going to sue us for everypenny we were worth. So I was kind of curious as to why Bear would give him my number.
"What can I do for you?"
"Oh," he said, surprised, I suppose, that I would take his call. "Look, I heard that part ofyour business is locating missing persons. Is that true?"
"No, that's not part of our business," I answered obliquely. And it wasn't. Officially, weran Special Forces Fitness. Finding people was something we did on the side. Instead of fishingor golf. We didn't advertise it, as neither Bear or I had any Private Investigator certification and,more to the point, because much of the work we did bordered on the line of illegality. The policehad laws and rules they had to follow. We had none. That's why we were so effective. We didn'tworry about evidence or proving someone guilty or innocent. We could use any means at ourdisposal to question people and sometimes this was just as it sounds. We always put the victim'srights ahead of suspects. This didn't endear us to many people. The police thought we wereinterfering in their cases, suspects feared us and the families frequently ended up hating usbecause of our intrusive questioning. By the time we were finished the only person pleased tosee us was the victim.
"The reason I ask," Hiffaunhouse said hurriedly, "is my thirteen-year-old niece has gonemissing."
"When?"
"About thirty minutes ago."
This was important. Most child abduction deaths occurred in the first two hours of theirdisappearance. I didn't mention it, but the highest percentage of deaths in that two hoursoccurred in the first fifteen minutes. The perp suddenly realizes what he has done and in a rushof fear and guilt gets rid of the evidence. The child.
"Where?" I asked.
"Bay Ridge, Brooklyn."
Good. That was only fifteen minutes away from me.
"Has your sister called the police?"
"Yes."
"What did they say?"
"They are looking but they aren't really concerned. Anna, that's my niece, has gonemissing several times before. One time, she took the train into the city to be with her dad. Herparents are divorced. The police are loathe to waste any manpower until they are certain she'sbeen snatched. The last time she turned up at a school friend's house after a couple ofdays."
"And what makes you so sure she has been snatched this time?"
"You'll have to talk to my sister but she's adamant she hasn't run away. Do you want meto send you a check or something? What are your rates?"
"I don't have any. People give me what they want to or what they can afford." Truth betold, most times we worked for nothing. Many of the people we helped were poor and weweren't in it for money. Besides, the money we made from our more wealthy clients more thancompensated for the ones that didn't.
"How can you run a business that way? Not that I'm criticizing," he added hurriedly,clearly worried that I would turn him down. He needn't have worried. I never turned anyonedown. I had lost so many people in my life I couldn't stand the thought of anyone losing a lovedone.
* * * *
When I drove up, Anna Gilliam had been missing for fifty minutes. A black-and-whiteand an unmarked police car were parked outside her home. Two uniforms were going door todoor. As I walked up the driveway, two cops in gray suits came out the front door, followed by awoman who, judging from her red, haunted eyes must be Anna's mom, Shirley.
"Hey, look what the cat dragged in. Are you so desperate for money you'reeavesdropping on a police scanner, Tanner?" Detective Scalin was six foot tall, white, about fiftypounds overweight, with thin, mean lips. We had bumped heads on a number of other cases. Forsome absurd reason he didn't like me.
"At least I listen to one," I answered mildly.
Sc