Panic point, p.1
Panic Point, page 1
Copyright © 2019 by Bill Briscoe
All rights reserved.
License Notes
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Editor: Lori Freeland
Cover Designer: Fiona Jayde Media
Formatting: The Deliberate Page
Available in eBook, paperback, & audio
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9986425-5-0
Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9986425-6-7
http://billbriscoe.com
This book is dedicated to the memory of Larry Hauser,
a friend and mentor.
Boomer!
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
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
August 1993
Great Smoky Mountain National Park
A large gust of wind blasted the tent, then as suddenly as it came, it was over. I turned on my left side and watched Morgan sleep. My new bride lay cuddled in her sleeping bag in our small two-person tent, each of her slow, easy breaths bringing me peace.
Special Ops missions sucked the life right out of you. You couldn’t know true evil until you saw evidence of people burned alive, children beheaded for playing soccer, or women taken from their homes and never seen again.
But I wasn’t going to let those events dominate my life. No, I had Morgan. And she was just the softness my rough Navy SEAL edges needed. The third day of our honeymoon and marriage was proof of that.
“Good morning,” she said in a slow, soft voice without opening her steel-blue eyes. I swear those eyes combined with that creamy mocha skin, so many shades lighter than mine, could bring Big Foot to his knees.
I reached over and stroked her sculptured cheekbone and jawline, her face a combination of strength and beauty.
The corners of her lips peaked upward. The tips of her fingers and her long muscular legs reached from one end of the tent to the other.
I leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Good morning.”
“What are you getting ready to do?” She sat up, wrapping her arms around her pulled-up knees.
I unzipped my sleeping bag and slipped on my cargo pants. Pulling a camo T-shirt over my head, I looked around the tent. “Where are my socks and combat boots?”
Her impish giggle had an edge of orneriness. “I told you last night not to leave them outside.”
I picked up my pillow and tossed it her way. “A good wife would’ve brought them inside.”
“A thoughtful husband would’ve thanked me for the reminder.”
“Okay. Should’ve listened.” Although I hadn’t been married long, it was long enough to know I needed to wiggle myself out of this tight spot.
“Of course.” She gave me a wink and an easy nod. “What are you going to do right now?”
I pulled back the flap of the tent and saw my boots and dirty socks where I left them. “I’m going down to the waterfalls about a half mile from camp. You want to come?”
“No, I’ll start breakfast. How long will you be?”
“Thirty minutes. Will that be long enough for you to make yourself beautiful for your fantastic husband?”
“Careful big boy.” She lowered her chin and looked up at me with a stare that said, don’t go there. Then a Colgate smile spread across her cheeks.
I gave her a proper military salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, Earl, before you go, would you loosen the rope and lower our food from the tree cable? I’ll get the salt pork frying and cook some powdered eggs.”
The tent didn’t allow me to stand so I knelt on both knees, put my hands on her cheeks, and gave her a good kiss. “You’re the best, and you look great when you first wake up.”
She gave me a gentle nudge. “Flattery will go a long way.”
I pushed through the tent flap and stood. The August day was foggy with a bit of chill in the air. The beauty of the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee was spellbinding. Crows squawked in the distance. A gentle breeze pushed its way through the tops of yellow birch trees, slowly moving the branches. A squirrel scampered across our campsite, paused and munched on his breakfast, oblivious to me.
I turned toward the tent. “Morgan, do you want me to leave the pistol? There might be wild boars in this area.”
She stuck her head out, her hair a mess.
Cute. My heart rate ticked up a notch or two. I knew we belonged together.
“Nope,” she said. “Won’t need it.”
I put my old service handgun, a durable Sig Sauer P226, in my holster and headed toward the falls. The mountain was steep and the forest dense with undergrowth. I had to angle and twist my way through straight, large birch trees. Morgan’s choice for the honeymoon was the perfect spot for me to unwind.
When I reached the spectacular falls, its power was overwhelming. The awesome roar of the churning water made me feel insignificant. I balanced against a rock, cupped my hand, filled it with the pure, clean, cold water, and splashed it on my face. It took my breath.
I was mesmerized for fifteen or twenty minutes sitting next to the stream. Then a weird feeling that someone was watching spiked my adrenalin. Hand on my gun, I looked around, but saw no one. Heard no one.
But still, an icy chill plucked up every hair on the back of my neck. The high-pitched scream of a cougar spread panic through my body like a kindling fire. Morgan. I had to get back to Morgan.
As I pulled my pistol, it started to rain. I raced up the mountain, weaving in and out of the trees, my lungs pounding. When I reached camp, I stopped so fast I fell onto the muddy ground.
The tent was crumpled. Salt pork smoldered in the pan. Powdered eggs were scattered next to the fire.
My legs felt like they’d been beaten with a rubber mallet. Paralysis set in, my feet anchored in cement. “Morgan!” I lowered the gun to my side and screamed for my wife over and over.
But she was gone.
Chapter 2
Six Months Earlier
Belleville, New Jersey
I woke up in my duplex at 6:45 a.m., my tooth throbbing like someone had taken a jackhammer to it. The throbbing and the tick, tick, tick of the clock were in perfect sync. I thumbed through a sports magazine until the alarm went off at 7:30. Didn’t remember a thing I read. How could I concentrate?
I was twenty-eight, but the first person I wanted to see wasn’t a doctor. Mamma should be at the diner. I showered, dressed, and headed to the restaurant, parking in the back.
My thoughts drifted to the diner and the day Mr. Leitner sold it to Mamma for five dollars. His way of paying her back for all the years she’d worked there. She’d turned it into the best BBQ place in New Jersey. People loved her baby back ribs so much their taste buds and tongues did the stadium wave.
I don’t know how she raised Burl, Tony, Belinda, Mary Nelle, and me by herself. Dad’s death when Burl and I were babies put a serious strain on the family.
“Come on in. You hungry?” She must’ve seen me drive up because she anchored the door with her beefcake hip and let me slide by.
“My tooth hurts.” I rubbed my jaw. “I need to see Dr. Brady. When does his office open? Am I still on your dental policy?”
She tapped me on the backside as I walked by. “Which question you want me to answer first?” I loved her guttural laugh. It made me feel warm like cinnamon toast on a snowy morning. “I’ll call and see if they’re open.”
She slipped on her round, red reading glasses. They looked like diving goggles. She pulled the phone book from the drawer, flipped through the pages, and dialed the number. “This is Glynna Helmsly. Is Dr. Brady in? Hmmm…my son Earl’s tooth is bothering him. Is there someone else he can see? He’s hurting somethin
After hanging up and removing those gosh-awful glasses, Mamma scratched her head. “Dr. Brady’s not in today, but Dr. Whitten will see you at nine o’clock.”
I didn’t remember a Dr. Whitten at the dental office. But I was desperate. Big brother Tony wouldn’t be expecting me at my job at his grappling club in Newark until after lunch. That would give the dentist plenty of time to ruin my day before I went to work.
Mamma pointed with a pink-painted fingernail to the chair in front of her desk. “Sit down. Open up. Let me see in there.” She unzipped a purse that could double for an overnight bag, pulled out her car keys, and walked around the desk.
“You’re not going to pry my tooth out, are you?” I said it half-joking and half-serious. Mamma had pulled my baby teeth with a pair of pliers.
“Open up, sugar foot.” She flicked on a small flashlight fastened to her key chain, stooped to shine the light into my mouth, then pulled back—her eyes the size of matzo balls.
“Lord, have mercy, Earl. You’ve got a cavity big enough to hide a shoe. When was the last time you went to the dentist?”
“Don’t know. I was still in the Navy.”
“Get on down to Dr. Brady’s, you hear.”
“Okay.” I pushed out of the chair, reached over, and gave her a hug. “Just don’t try to pull my tooth with those rusty pliers you had when I was a kid.”
She gave me a near kiss on my cheek. “Go on…and you ain’t on no dental policy.”
I pulled into Doc Brady’s parking lot at 9:05, a bit uneasy. He was the only dentist at this clinic to work on me, and the only one I trusted. I walked up to the door. Etched in the glass was what looked like a tooth with two eyes and a mouth. Clever advertising. The waiting room was empty. Everybody in Belleville had probably heard Dr. Brady was not in and cancelled their appointments. Dr. Whitten was probably sixteen with zero experience. Just my luck.
The receptionist looked up. Her beautiful straight, white teeth made her the poster girl for Dr. Brady’s handiwork.
“I’m Earl Helmsly, here to see Dr. Whitten.”
“Yes, Mr. Helmsly. Dr. Whitten will be with you shortly.” She took me down a long hallway to the last room on the right. The walls were plastered with pictures of little kids.
I adjusted my 6’ 2”, two hundred thirty-pound body the best I could on the long, slender reclining chair.
On the wall directly in front of me was a framed diploma with Dr. Whitten’s name on it. A graduate of the University of Tennessee Dental School. Oh, good grief, not only a rookie dentist, but a southerner. Wouldn’t be able to understand a word he said. He’d probably sound like Colonel Sanders with a couple of marbles in his mouth.
I lay back in the chair waiting for my torture session. The ceiling was covered with peaceful landscapes and photos of cats and dogs. What was that all about? Lack of sleep caught up with me. I dozed off.
“Mr. Helmsly. Mr. Helmsly.”
I rubbed my eyes with my thumb and index finger, trying to focus. Standing before me was a beautiful woman with almond-shaped blue eyes. Her athletic body was tall and lean. I’d seen pictures of Miss America Vanessa Williams. This had to be her sister.
“I’m Dr. Whitten.”
I rubbed my eyes again. “Say what?”
“I’m Dr. Whitten.” The tone of her voice gave away that she might be irritated by my question.
I looked at the diploma, then back at Miss Too Good To Be True. “Dr. Morgan Whitten?”
She angled her head and gave me a smug smile. I think she was making fun of me. “Yes,” she drew the word out.
Yup, she was making fun. “But you’re not a guy.”
“If I am, I’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”
My gaze went to her hand. No wedding ring. This might not be such a bad day after all.
Chapter 3
Six months ago, I’d sat in a dental chair and asked Morgan to go out with me. Now we were getting married in a few days. Amused at how situations could change in a heartbeat, I took a sip of Diet Dr. Pepper and choked. The soda fire-hosed through the gaps in my teeth and all over the steering wheel. Bummer. Where was a napkin when I needed one? Using my forearm, I swiped the sticky wheel. What good did that do?
I pulled in front of Jim Pepperman’s mom’s house in Belleville, New Jersey. The morning was cool, birds chirped, and the manicured grass added to the pristine setting. Tomorrow, we’d head out on the nine-hour trip to Elizabethton, Tennessee, my fiancé’s hometown.
Jim offered to make the drive with me. He’d flown in two days earlier from Bartlesville, Oklahoma. My twin, Burl, had put him in charge of organizing my bachelor party. The Newark Grappling Club, owned by Tony and managed by Burl, had a wrestling tournament scheduled mid-week with its biggest rival—the Inner City Club in Brooklyn. They couldn’t leave when I did.
“Come on in.” Jim met me at the door. “Mom’s anxious to see you.” His massive shoulders and small waist made him look like he could still play for the Pittsburgh Steelers. Our skin color didn’t match and we had different last names, but he was still my brother. My family would walk the plank for his family and vice versa.
The aroma of homemade bread brought back childhood memories of cold Saturday mornings. The smell pulled me through the living room into the kitchen like a magnet. I wanted a plate full of Mrs. Pepperman’s golden brown rolls.
She opened the oven door and slipped the tray of heaven’s delight onto the counter.
I reached one arm around her and angled the other toward the bread pan.
“They’re too hot.” She tapped my knuckles. “You’ll burn your fingers.”
I gave her a kiss on the forehead and wrapped both arms around her small, round shoulders. “Okay, but you know I can’t resist too long. Gotta have my rolls, butter, honey, and a big glass of milk.”
She tugged on my cheek with her thumb and index finger. “You little rascal, you haven’t changed a bit. Let me get a plate.”
I glanced at Jim leaning against the door frame. His eyes seemed to sparkle as he slowly patted his heart.
“Where did you learn to make dinner rolls?” I briskly rubbed my hands together anticipating the first bite.
She looked over the finished product as she touched my shoulder, then placed the plate in front of me. “Jim’s grandmother passed the recipe down, but I never quite mastered her cooking techniques when it came to bread making.”
I pulled the chair away from the wooden Amish table and sat. “I can’t believe her rolls were any better than yours.”
There was a lightness in her smile when she looked at me. Love didn’t always have to be spoken.
I slapped creamy butter on both halves of the bread, doused a large tablespoon of honey in the middle, and dug in, gorging myself like I’d never eat again.
Jim pulled a chair next to me and managed to steal a few round mounds of bread. “Can’t let you have all the enjoyment. Pass that butter and honey.”
