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  S.A. ISON

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  Copyright © 2019 by S.A. Ison All rights reserved.

  Book Design by Elizabeth Mackey

  Book Edited by Ronald Ison Esq. Editing Services

  All rights Reserved. Except as under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a data base or retrieval system, without prior written permission of S.A. Ison

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the production of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons – living or dead- is entirely coincidental.

  OTHER BOOKS BY S.A. ISON

  BLACK SOUL RISING

  INOCULATION ZERO WELCOME TO THE STONE AGE

  BOOK ONE

  INOCULATION ZERO WELCOME TO THE AGE OF WAR

  BOOK TWO

  EMP ANTEDILUVIAN PURGE

  BOOK ONE

  EMP ANTEDILUVIAN FEAR

  BOOK TWO

  EMP ANTEDILUVIAN COURAGE BOOK THREE

  POSEIDON RUSSIAN DOOMSDAY

  BOOK ONE

  EMP PRIMEVAL

  PUSHED BACK A TIME TRAVELER’S JOURNAL

  BOOK 1

  THE RECALCITRANT ASSASSIN

  FUTURE RELEASES

  POSEIDON RUBBLE AND ASH

  BOOK TWO

  THE HIVE

  SMOKEHOUSE SMILES

  SHATTERED MIND

  BIO VENGENCE

  Other books by S.A. Ison under the name: Stefany White

  Dragon’s Fortune

  Alaskan Heat

  The Seeding

  Future Releases

  The Butler Did It

  Little White Lies

  FOR

  KIM,

  MY BROTHER-IN-LAW

  ♥♥♥

  PROLOGUE

  Jasper watched the house; his eyes glittered with rage, the delicious emotion that drove his train. Choo Chooooo, he thought. The interior lights were on and he scrutinized the scene before him, as the man inside walked past windows. The name on the mailbox read Peach. Was he a peach of a man? He’d look like one after Jasper reached out and touched him.

  “He’s a nigger hater and he should die, should fry, fry, fry. We’ll mish and we’ll mash and make peach soup, then peach poop.” He laughed out loud. Push me pull you.

  August is hot and you’ll swelter and stink, and turn a brilliant red and pink. I’ll hear the crunch of those tiny bones, snap, crackle and pop. Delish, his thoughts sang to him. He flexed his arms and watched them swell. His knuckles popped as his hands tightened on the steering wheel. The brawny muscles always impressive. He’d always thought his forearms his best feature. They held strength and power. Push me, pull you.

  ONE

  Leslie Pigg’s face was illuminated by the computer, his office was dark, he preferred working in the dark. It was another late night, but that didn’t matter. There was no one at home waiting for him. He wasn’t allowed to smoke in the building, but since he was the only one there, he didn’t give a shit. He’d opened the window earlier to let most of the smoke vent. He was finishing up the article for the following morning.

  He’d come in late this morning, hungover from a date with a bottle of vodka, but he’d told his boss that it was for an unexpected doctor’s appointment. He was sure the man didn’t believe him, but again, he didn’t give a shit.

  He worked for a modest newspaper, nothing like Charleston’s Post and Courier, but respectable. The Cooper Sentinel was of course named after the Cooper River. The Cooper River was born from the cold Atlantic. Coming into Charleston Harbor, it forked, and Cooper River hugged and meandered along Charleston, while the Wando River headed northeast.

  Charleston is an expansive and vibrant city, steeped in a historical nostalgia and pride. Massive antebellum oaks draped with Spanish moss pepper the city with seasoning. The tall sinewy palmettoes that line thoroughfares, give the impression of a tropical paradise.

  Les had lived in South Carolina all his life and appreciated the genteel crust. However, below that crust, there was always something rotten, wasn’t there? Wasn’t that life? Wasn’t that why he became a reporter? He loved words, so much so, in fact, that at the tender age of fourteen, he knew he wanted to be a writer. He’d heard the poem, Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost, and it had moved him so deeply, that it nearly brought him to tears.

  The power of words had reached inside him, evoking a powerful response. He wanted nothing more than to replicate that feeling, not only in himself, but also in others. He wanted his writing to be an evocative extension of himself. To convey thought and feeling by the turn of a word or phrase. From then on, he’d been hooked. Writing for his school paper and then on to the College of Charleston, for journalism.

  He sat back in his chair and blew smoke from his nostrils. He rubbed his eyes, his brain felt foggy. He really needed to lay off the booze. What he’d just written wasn’t a Pulitzer piece, but the article was a good bit of writing. He covered a lot of the wetland’s issues and some political, a lot of environmental and regulatory news. He didn’t mind it too much, though after working at the Sentinel for fifteen years, he’d hoped for weightier assignments.

  Those plums went to Rachael Weaver, she did a lot of the police, crime and higher political scandal crap. There were many waiting for her to die. She was an “A” number one bitch. Not that she wasn’t good at her job, but she knew it and made sure you knew it too. She’d been at the paper for twenty-six years, and had seniority, but to Leslie’s way of thinking, with that position, you didn’t need to be an asshole. He hated bullies with a passion.

  His own stepfather had been a bully and a brute. He’d constantly belittled Les as a child. Leslie’s mother, Trina, had married Donovan Pigg, a man of Irish ancestry and mean temperament. Les had been two when his mother had married Donovan, or so the story went. His mother hadn’t said much about Leslie’s real father, only that he’d been killed just after Leslie’s birth.

  Les had always hated his adopted last name and had been bullied and teased about it at school, along with his first name, which everyone said was a girl’s name. He went by Les and pronounced Pigg as Pijj, with a French affectation. He’d thought about having his name changed, but he’d been living with it so very long that way. Why bother?

  All his young life, Les had witnessed Donovan smack and beat his mother. Donovan had also beaten Les, telling the boy he’d needed toughening up. There had been quiet times, when life was going good, Donovan was able to hold on to a good job. Those times, all was right with the world. Then, Donovan would argue with his boss and he was sacked. Then Donovan blamed the world and everyone else.

  Donovan couldn’t even blame it on a drunken rage, the bastard was simply a bastard. He’d been bailed out of jail for fighting as well. Donovan had a chip on his shoulder. A miserable bastard through and through. Life just didn’t seem to go his way. It was someone else’s fault, always.

  Les sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead and scrubbed at his eyes. His hands splayed over his bald head. He’d need to shave it, he could feel the growth beneath his fingers. He’d inherited his biological father’s male pattern baldness. Not just the top of his head, but the top and the back. No comb-overs for him. He’d also inherited the patchy and sparse beard, and when he’d tried to grow it out, it had looked like he had bits and pieces of beard glued to his face in random places. It was quite unmanly.

  He was finished and as he reread the article, he was pleased. He shot it over to the editor, who would go through it in the morning. He closed the window and turned off the computer an
d left his office. He didn’t need a light, walking through the building, he had walked these same steps for fifteen years. His night vision was excellent as well.

  He stepped out into the muggy night. He’d moved around quite a bit as a kid, but one thing had never changed was the humidity, it was a second skin, ubiquitous and cloying. Getting into his car, he drove home. He had a small apartment, since most of his pay went to his ex-wife, Valerie. He didn’t begrudge her that, she’d put up with his bullshit for too long. He’d done just what his old man had done, taken his disappointments with life and himself, out on the person he loved.

  The thought of it shamed him, and he could feel the heat of it creep up his chest and into his face. He knew he was a bastard and was glad when he felt shame about it. He’d never actually hit Valerie, but he’d roughed her up a bit and had frightened her. Val was a sweet person, and he loved her enough to give her a divorce and alimony. They’d become friends, and for that he was profoundly grateful.

  She’d called two months ago to say she was getting married. He’d soon have the alimony gone and money back in pocket, and he knew the man she was marrying. Les had divorced Val six years ago, and it had taken her a long time to put that baggage to rest.

  Richard Hilleary a good man, much better than Les. He was a pediatric nurse, as was Val. The man had a wicked sense of humor and Leslie was happy for the both of them. He knew the couple wanted to start a family and though he felt a small pang deep in the tiniest recesses of his heart, he knew he would have made a lousy father.

  As it was, Les didn’t date. He didn’t want to foist himself on another woman, only to fuck up her life as well. His stepfather’s legacy of abuse ended with Val, he’d never do that to another human. He was so dissatisfied with his life and between the booze and sometimes the blackouts, his life was beginning to spiral. He’d lose his job if he didn’t pull his head out of his ass. He’d cut back on the drinking quite a bit, but still, he needed to do better.

  He just needed a break, he needed to move up in the news business. He felt he was stagnating with all the bland crap he wrote. He knew he had something special within, he just needed an opportunity to shine. To let his work, and his words speak for him and his talents. To show the world what he was really capable of. But that was up to his boss, and Ross Jackson, who’s family owned the newspaper, wasn’t pleased with Les right now. Not that Les could blame him. For all his faults, Leslie was a realist and knew the problem lay within himself. His inner demons. He just needed to pull his head out of his ass and get his act together.

  He knew he needed to clean his game up, and he needed to stop fucking around. He pulled into the neat apartment complex. Well, he’d start by laying off the booze. It was killing his braincells and he wasn’t getting any younger. He climbed the short set of stairs and looked out into the night. It was peaceful at least, he saw a dog running down the street and saw several people walking. It was still early, but he was damn dog tired. He’d hit the rack and maybe get to work early for once.

  It’s up to you buddy, you keep telling yourself to quit the drinking. So quit, tonight, follow through, and don’t kid yourself anymore, or Ross will fire you, he told himself.

  Ϫ

  Ross Jackson picked up the phone, his mouth fell open and he sat back, color draining from his face. Mary Beth Brown, his secretary watched him, and he stared into her light brown eyes. He saw the questions in them and he grunted over the phone and then hung up. His hands went up to his short gray crop of hair, that always seemed mussed.

  “What? What was that all about, you look like a ghost, Ross?” She asked, concern clear in her voice and stamped on her features.

  “That was Ed Weaver, Rachael died last night from a heart attack. Jesus Christ, just like that.” He said, snapping his finger.

  “Oh my god, poor Ed.” Mary Beth whispered.

  Ross snorted, “Not to speak ill of the dead, but Ed was so worn down by Rachael, I figured he’d have been the first to go. She aged him twenty years. She was a damn good journalist, but she rode that poor bastard, like Secretariat on crack.”

  “I know, but still…” Mary Beth’s voice drifted off.

  “I’ll need to put a replacement in on her beat.” He said, resigned.

  “Les might work, he’s been doing a lot better the last few months. He’s really cleaned himself up.” Mary Beth suggested.

  Ross looked over at her, he knew she had a soft spot for Leslie. She was correct however, Les had finally pulled his head out of his butt and had been putting out some damn good articles. There was of course, Bridget White and Raymond Thompson to consider, but Les had seniority on the two. Had Les not cleaned up his act, Ross was sure he’d have picked one of the other two, but he wanted to reward Leslie with the bump up.

  “Okay, send Les in, tell him I want to see him.” Ross said. He watched Mary Beth leave his office with a smile on her face. Ross shook his head. He couldn’t believe that old obdurate was gone. He figured she’d outlive them all. But she ate those doughnuts like bonbons. He figured half her blood was made of glaze. He’d not miss her, and part of him was ashamed. But, after a quarter of a century arguing with her, he couldn’t help but feel relieved.

  A few minutes later, Les stuck his head in the door.

  “You wanted to see me?” He asked.

  “Sure, come in and shut the door.” Ross noted that Les was clean shaven and clear eyed. He wore a crisp shirt and tie. Good.

  “Some sad news. Rachael passed away last night, heart attack.” Ross said.

  “Holy shit! Wow! I don’t know what to say, sorry I guess.” Leslie said, a slight stunned look on his face.

  “Yes, well, good news for Ed, bad for us. I’m going to put you on her beat. It’s important, because she’s just picked up on a new task force forming over at Charleston Police Department. The Chief of Detectives, at CPD, is Bart Skilter. He has been or rather was talking to Rachael about having her follow the task force.”

  Leslie’s face bore the stamp of shock, clearly, he’d not expected this. Ross was glad, he didn’t like presumptuous people, Rachael had been enough for him and he’d had his fill of it from her. He liked Leslie and knew the man had gone through a hard time with his divorce. Hell, Ross himself had gone through one as well, so he understood and that was why he’d looked the other way. He was glad, however that Les had cleaned up his act and had kept it up.

  “Wow! Thanks Ross, I mean that. I won’t let you down. Did Rachael say what kind of task force?” Les asked, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. Ross had to bite back a smile. He was eager. Good!

  “She was kind of vague, you know how she was, she didn’t want anyone to know what she was up to, until she had it on paper. She was always afraid someone would steal her material. I’ll bump you to her office, take your shit and move over. Clear out her personal things, I’m sure Ed will be by at some point to collect them. You have inherited the rest. Give me a brief later on what she’d been working on, okay?”

  Les stood and leaned over Ross’s desk, his hand held out for a handshake. Ross stood and took the hand and gave a firm shake. He hoped he’d not made a mistake in giving Les the job. But he could see the determined glint in the man’s blue eyes. He shrugged mentally, only time would tell.

  Ϫ

  Leslie sat in his new office, Rachael’s perfume was like a noxious fug in the room. She dressed expensively, but the woman had worn the cheapest perfumes. It made his nose twitch and he rubbed at it. He had an empty box, from the copy paper, and was filling it with Rachael’s personal effects. There weren’t many things in her office and desk. A few earrings, a pair of heels, that had been in the bottom drawer of the oak desk, and a fine desk it was.

  He pulled open one of the deep drawers and found paper files there. He rifled through them, but found nothing personal of hers. He set the box down on the floor and turned on her computer. Once the computer booted up, photos of antique dolls popped up. He’d have to get rid of that crap. He sno
rted. It was interesting what people liked, no accounting for taste. He himself was fond of model wooden boats, shrimpers.

  He looked through her files on the computer, and was gratified that she didn’t use a password. That would have been a major pain in the ass. He wasn’t good with that computer techno stuff. He used it only as a typewriter or rather a word processor. It was a great tool, but that was extent of its use for him.

  He saw one file label, CPTF, which he clicked on, sure enough, Charleston Police Task Force. Opening the file, his eyes grew large. Holy shit, this is interesting, he thought. Apparently, Chief Bart Skilter had formed the beginnings of a task force to handle what the police department believed to be a series of murders, and possibly the work of one suspect. The murders have been spread out over five years, and in different precincts. There were ten known victims, but because the last three victims had been spaced out only three months apart, it was now considered the work of one man or woman.

  “Holy shit! Holy shit, this was what I’ve been waiting for. Holy shit. Wow, and Rachael has been sitting on this.” He said out loud and he looked up to make sure the door was closed. He wiped his trembling hand over his mouth. He’d been handed a career changer.

  He read on, but there wasn’t a lot of information there in the file, he looked at the date. Okay, last week, so she had been in the preliminary stage of it. Good, it would essentially be his baby, now. This would really build up his rep and stamp him a serious journalist. He could also see a book in his future, holy cow. He grinned. Finally, he had something with meat, with merit. He’d prove to Donovan that he wasn’t a loser, that he had the brains to succeed. God he was glad he’d quit drinking. He sat back and grinned.

  Ross had really done him a solid. He knew that others might be more deserving. Ross had truly recognized his improvement, not just a shallow attempt, but a real improvement of himself. He’d been sober for over three months now. His writing had begun to really shine. He’d looked over some of his older articles and cringed. They were good, but he knew he could have done better. He’d been in self-pity mode for way too long and his writing had suffered.