Perplexity, p.1
Perplexity, page 1
Copyright ©2017 by Bill Briscoe
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Editor: Lori Freeland
Cover Design: Fiona Jayde, Fiona Jayde Media
Formatting: Tamara Cribley, The Deliberate Page
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9986425-2-9
Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9986425-3-6
http://www.billbriscoe.com
This book is dedicated to my daughters and their families—Blythe and Chloe Stenberg and Brook, Justin, and Foster Moore
Table of Contents
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
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
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Panic Point: Chapter 1
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
JIM
Cemeteries haunted my soul. Especially this one.
I parked my rental, a brand new 1987 Lincoln, on a patch of gravel under a low-hanging red oak and tapped a nervous finger on the steering wheel. A steel band wrapped my chest, smothering me. Suffocating me.
I walked a thin line of love and hate with Holy Cross Cemetery outside Belleville. I loved this small corner of New Jersey. For the last twenty years this well-manicured mound of grass had been the only place I felt connected to Dad. I hated it for the same reason.
But I needed to talk to him. Had to tell someone. Had to tell him.
I closed my eyes, wishing we were at the old house working on my pickup under a shade tree. That’s when we’d had our best conversations. Wisdom was his strength. When I was seven and having problems with a street bully named Gerald, he told me to learn to get along or stand up for myself, leaving me to solve my own problems. But I was a long way from seven.
I latched onto the steering wheel so hard my hands quivered. What would he tell me now? Would the proud way he’d always looked at me change once he knew what I’d done?
Shaking off the heavy memories, I reached for the door handle and paused, my fingers trembling over exposing my dark secret. I slowly lifted the handle. The door cracked open and air rushed over my face, providing a brief calmness. I pushed against the door and stepped out, each stride toward Dad’s marker cumbersome.
My heavy feet kicked up bits of dirt and grass. Invisible hands squeezed my heart.
I touched the top of the tombstone. “Dad, I miss your leadership and guidance, but most of all I miss you.”
A few months after I’d turned seventeen, he’d fallen from an oil rig in Odessa, Texas. Overnight I went from all-state linebacker for my high school team to a stand-in father for my two younger sisters. Working toward the playoffs was overshadowed by working to help support my family.
Because my parents were raised in New Jersey, Mom wanted Dad buried there. She pulled me aside after his graveside service and told me we were moving to Belleville to be closer to her family.
I’d been stunned. All I could think about was my senior year. Not only had I lost my dad, my best friend, and my security, but moving would almost surely ruin any chance of getting a football scholarship to the University of Texas. And I needed a scholarship if I wanted to go to college.
A blast of cold air brought me back to the cemetery. A chill crept over my neck and vanished. A chill in the middle of July? Maybe it was an omen not to share my secret with Dad. What if he could hear me? What if somewhere, somehow he’d kept up with my life and all the things I shared here?
“Hey, Dad.” I knelt close to the granite stone and ran my fingers over the etched letters. Patrick Pepperman. “Laura and the triplets are at Mom’s. I wish you could see those little guys. You’d be so proud, and I’m sure they’d love their granddad. You could spoil them with ice cream just as you did me. We’ll be heading home to Oklahoma tomorrow. My high school reunion was yesterday. Hard to believe it’s been twenty years for the Class of 1967. I didn’t recognize half the people. I’m sure they said the same thing about me.”
I was putting off the real reason I was here. But, first, I needed to let him know I’d kept my promise.
A cloud slid in front of the sun, providing a temporary shade. I took a deep breath. Kept going. “Blythe and Brook came in for the weekend. You’d love being around your daughters. They’re outstanding, vibrant people. Just as I promised you, I paid for their college and looked after Mom. She’s steady as a rock, always putting others before herself. Still the same lady you married. And guess what? She’s also a CPA. Worked hard to make that happen.”
I twisted my wedding ring, glad Laura hadn’t come. Things were strained between us lately, and the words I needed to say to Dad were hard enough to say in private. “Laura says I mumble in my sleep. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night because of nightmares. She knows something’s wrong. The hurt look on her face begs for answers, but I won’t tell her. I can’t tell her. She’d never look at me the same again.”
I stared at his marker, hesitant to go on. “I don’t even know if I can tell you. But I have to tell somebody.” My past hung over me like a heavy shadow.
“No one knows what I’m about to tell you. I’ve buried it too deep.” I closed my eyes and let out a deep breath. “A couple of weeks ago I went to a stag party for a co-worker. Hadn’t been to a bar in years.” I opened my eyes and stared at the letters that made up Dad’s name. “My friend is a biker on weekends, and the type of bar he chose, well, let’s just say, not a place to take your wife. It was about midnight when a big bruiser poured a drink on a little guy’s head. Déjà vu. Instant recall of a similar night in Minnesota.
It seemed as if the lining of my stomach was being peeled away like an onion. “Something happened years ago. I blocked it out for so long, but now it’s back. Most nights I wake up shaking in a puddle of sweat.”
I struggled to keep my gut from ripping apart. Perspiration soaked my collar. “It happened after a game when I played for the Pittsburgh Steelers. We lost to the Vikings on their home turf. Our charter plane had engine trouble, and the team had to spend the night.”
Once the story started to inch out of my subconscious, the need to release my secret pushed me to finish. “After dinner, I left the team and went to a bar three or four blocks from the hotel. And drank too much, too fast.” I’d never done that before. It was stupid. Irresponsible.
“A loud-mouth jerk pestered a little guy at the end of the bar. Even spat into the man’s drink.” It reminded me of being tormented by that older boy when I was seven. “I told the guy to back off. Someone called him Weasel. Appropriate, right? When he didn’t back off, I slammed him against the wall, then the bartender got involved.”
A single crow flew over Dad’s headstone, screeching a hideous caw, bristling the hairs on my neck. Another cold blast of wind. An eerie stillness tingled across my skin.
I swallowed and licked my dry lips. “Weasel followed me out of the bar that night. Dad, he grabbed me from behind. And I lost it. I pulled him into the alley and beat him into a bloody mess. Wanted to stop.” My voice cracked. “But I couldn’t. I pounded and pounded until his nose exploded and blood gurgled from his lips. When he went slack on the wet asphalt, I ran.”
My heart beat so hard I could hear it pounding in my ears. “The next morning the local news announced an unnamed man was found dead in an alley.” I twisted away from Dad’s tombstone. “I think it was him. I think I killed a man.” Anguish mixed with relief flooded my chest.
A flock of black birds scattered from a grove of trees, squawking as though someone had forced their flight. A man dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt stood at the edge of the woods, legs spread, arms crossed.
My pulse quickened. I stood and our eyes locked.
He pointed at me, then turn
My gut screamed that something was wrong. Something pushed me, then a powerful shove as if someone had come up behind me. But there was no one. Just the urgency to move. Run. Get out of there.
I sprinted to the car. My fingers shook and the key missed the lock and dropped to the ground. I bent and grabbed it off the gravel road just as a bullet shattered the driver’s side window, narrowly missing my shoulder.
My heart sputtered, then beat faster and faster. What do I do? Where do I go?
“Son, the keys… move now,” a voice whispered. Dad’s voice. “Move to the other side of the car.”
Chapter 2
JIM
Dad’s voice. How had I heard Dad?
I snatched the keys and scrambled around the front of the car to the passenger side, legs shaking like someone had beaten them with a rubber hose. Dizzy, I sucked in air and crouched behind the front wheel.
I eased my head above the hood of the car, just enough to see. Nothing there. Did the guy from the woods fire the shot? I opened the passenger door and scraped broken glass from the seat. A shard sliced into my left palm. The cut was deep, and blood snaked down my forearm. But I felt—nothing. I was numb.
Sliding over the seat on my stomach, I jammed the key in the ignition, started the car, then popped up and slammed the gearshift into drive. Checking the rearview mirror, I shot out of the cemetery, leaving clouds of dust from the graveled road behind me.
The torn flesh on my palm began to pulsate in pain, the numbness wearing off. I pressed the cut against my pant leg to stop the bleeding. Didn’t work. My pants absorbed the blood.
Who would shoot at me? I pounded my left hand on the steering wheel. Pain reminded me of the wound. Blood splattered onto the dash. Come on, Jim, think straight.
The police station. I needed to go to the police station and Chief Langdon, my mentor since high school.
Pulling up to the municipal building, I parked across the street and wrapped a handkerchief around my injured hand. My shirt and pants were stained red. My vision blurred as I walked into the station.
A female officer confronted me. “Sir, please stop.”
I zombied past her.
“Paula, it’s okay. I know this man.” Chief Langdon ran toward me, his voice anything but composed. His silver, walrus mustache bristled as his arched lips exposed his coffee-stained teeth. He was so close I could see my reflection in his round, wire-rimmed glasses. “Jim, what happened to you?”
I struggled to speak through my tight, clenched jaw. “Someone just shot at me.”
“Paula, get a towel. He’s bleeding.” He grabbed a chair and pushed it toward me. “Where were you?”
“Holy Cross Cemetery. Visiting Dad’s gravesite.” The soaked handkerchief dripped blood onto the linoleum floor leaving a circular pattern. Langdon was talking to me, but I was only picking up every other word.
Chief’s hand moved to my shoulder and grounded me. “Did you see anyone?”
“Yes, a man in jeans and a white t-shirt, but I couldn’t see his face. Too far away.”
“Get patrol cars seven and eight to Holy Cross Cemetery, ASAP,” Langdon shouted to the dispatcher, then turned to me. “Are you in town by yourself?”
“No, Laura and the boys are at Mom’s.”
“Call Laura. Tell her to take the kids to my house. I’ll let Marilyn know they’re coming.”
I stood. “The shooter wouldn’t go after my family, would he?”
He put a firm hand on my shoulder. “It’s just a precaution. We have to play it safe. The attacker didn’t get you. The next target could be them.”
My stomach filled with acid. I was exhausted, mentally spent, as I reached for the phone on Chief Langdon’s desk. My right hand shook so badly I had to steady it with my left. What would I say to my wife? All I could think was be calm, be calm, be calm.
“Where are you?” Laura answered. “The boys want you to take them for ice cream.”
“I want you to get Mom and take the boys to Chief Langdon’s house right now.” I did my best not to frighten her. My voice was calm, message direct.
“What… why… what do you mean?” Her voice trembled. “Are you okay?”
My temper snapped. She just needed to be safe. “Just do it. I’m with Chief Langdon. Please, leave now.”
“Okay… okay, I’ll get the boys.” She began to cry. “Whatever it is, be careful.”
Chief looked at me, his expression was sober. “I’ll need you to go with me to the spot where this happened. The sooner we get to the cemetery, the better chance we have to gather information while things are fresh on your mind. First we need to go to the emergency room to get your hand sewn up.”
I nodded, but wondered if I could make it that far.
Walking to his patrol car, I became dizzy to the point of passing out. Chief Langdon opened the passenger door, and I fell onto the seat.
He bent over, eyes level with mine. “Do you know anyone who would want to harm you?”
I shook my head and wiped the sweat from my forehead. “No one.” I’d wracked my brain trying to think who would want to kill me. I couldn’t make sense of this.
Chief Langdon was quiet as he got into his side of the car. Maybe just as confused as I was. “What did you do this weekend? Anything I need to know about?” He drove us out of the parking lot.
I leaned forward to adjust the seat belt with my good hand. “Went to the class reunion… that’s it.
“Who did you visit?”
“Everyone.” I glanced at the towel wrapped around my lacerated hand. I wiggled my fingers. There didn’t appear to be any nerve damage, but it throbbed, and the pain intensified. “But mostly Delmar Boldin.”
“Any problems between you and him?”
“None at all. We’ve kept in touch since high school.” Dizzy and nauseous again, it took all my willpower to keep my stomach from erupting.
Chief Langdon made a ticking sound with his mouth. “We may be overreacting a bit. We’ve had problems all summer keeping kids from hunting squirrels at the cemetery. This whole thing could be an accident. I’m not trying to downplay what happened, but someone could have made a mistake. Dang teenagers and their .22s. They’ve been a real pain in the rear.”
I snapped my head toward the chief. “That may explain everything.” But what about the guy in the woods?
“It could.” His words were measured and his tone softened. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. Someone wanting to kill you may be a stretch.”
I wondered if he said that because he believed it, or because he wanted to ease my anxiety. Whatever his intentions, I relaxed. The entire incident could have been an accident… couldn’t it?
