The Sean Coleman Thriller Series E-Book

John A. Daly

• Herausgeber: BQB Publishing
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Book 1: From a Dead Sleep - There are times when the truth invites evil, and there are times when the truth can get you killed.
 
Book 2: Blood Trade - Sometimes blood is thicker than life.
 
Book 3: Broken Slate - Be careful the legacy you wish for.

“John Daly has a magical writing style, and his books keep you up late at night turning pages... You won’t want to put it down.”
— Dana Perino, former White House Press Secretary / co-host of The Five

“…I’ve become persuaded that nobody today tells a story quite like John A. Daly. From the very moment you pick one [of his books] up, it takes all the willpower you can muster just to put it down.”
— Bob Burg, bestselling co-author of the ‘Go-Giver’ series

"For a self-described ‘rent-a-cop security guard,’ Sean Coleman is a particularly human and relatable hero – plenty of flaws and rough around the edges, but heroic for the way he carries on, despite all the baggage of his mistakes and hard lessons learned. I think what impresses me the most about John Daly as a writer is his range."
— Jim Geraghty, National Review; author of the Dangerous Clique thriller series

Leseprobe

The Sean Coleman Series© 2023 John A. Daly. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying, or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published in the United States by BQB Publishing(Boutique of Quality Books Publishing Company)www.bqbpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

979-8-88633-037-3 (e)

Book design by Robin Krauss, www.lindendesign.biz

FROM A

DEAD SLEEP

JOHN A. DALY

To my wife, Sarah, whose love and encouragement helped me fulfill a dream. To my children, Chase and Olivia, whose smiles and laughter are constant reminders that anything is possible in this world.

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

July 14th, 2001 Saturday

Chapter 1

Sean Coleman grunted at the mercy of an excruciating headache as he began to awake. His skull throbbed in anguish, as if it had been knotted tightly with a rope. With blurred vision behind flickering eyelids, he struggled to find clarity and discovered himself lying facedown on a bed of damp, coarse dirt. Blades of long, healthy grass, wet from morning dew, brushed against his cheek as he clumsily turned his head to the side. A roaring cough erupted from deep within his throat, contorting his face and prompting him to raise his muddied fist to his parched lips.

Fragmented events from the night before began to stumble through his mind as if a diary was being thumbed through. He remembered getting off work late and stopping by O’Rafferty’s Bar for a drink. One drink turned into many, and he soon lost fifty bucks to Moses Jones in a game of eight-ball. Sean couldn’t afford to lose that money. It was his lifeline, but he had beaten Moses in the past on numerous occasions and another Sean Coleman victory seemed like a sure bet. Moses must have been practicing.

That money was needed for rent—rent that was already two months overdue. His landlord’s patience had been expended. He recalled the seriousness in that angry man’s eyes while he threatened Sean with eviction if the amount due wasn’t paid in full by the week’s end. It was the story of Sean’s life: always making the wrong decisions at the worst possible times.

“You stupid son of a bitch,” he grunted. The words were hoarse, grating.

Birds chatted peacefully above, their song the only sound that resonated above the loud roar of moving water whose constant echo bounced off the towering trees and large, rounded, moss-covered rocks. Fresh daylight shined through narrow openings in the thick Gamble Oak and evergreens. A ray kindled a swaying glimmer off of an empty beer bottle that lay just inches from Sean’s face. His stinging, bloodshot eyes glared hypnotically at it, as if he were staring through an open campfire.

He grappled with adjusting his eyes over what felt like an eternity, but was closer to a minute’s time. Finally the world focused.

Among the muggy turf and the scent of pine, his nose intercepted a lingering, recognizable, but vile stench. Through narrowed eyes, he scowled at the large clump of vomit that nested intrusively on the ground in front of the beer bottle he barely recalled carrying in his hand the night before. The sight prompted him to hastily spin over onto his broad back, away from last night’s penance. A wake of pain flowed across his skull from the brisk movement. His body flattened the grass beneath him, while small, underlying stones crackled from his movement.

His fluttering eyes soon grew large when a piercing sensation pricked into his chest. His hand hustled to his front shirt pocket, and his fingers quickly clenched the thin but heavy metal object that resided there. He grabbed it and raised it to his face. He examined the blemished badge whose securing pin dangled loosely in the light breeze. His thumb smeared mud and tiny grass particles from the front, exposing a smooth glimmering shield with an etched star at the middle. Above the star, in blue engraved print, read the word “Hansen.” The lower half read “Security.”

A whisper of moving brush and the snap of a thin twig spun Sean’s head to the side like a weathervane through a sudden wind gust. A subtle smile formed on his lips as he welcomed the unexpected company of a large jackrabbit who glared back with beady black eyes. The critter was hunched timidly between two smalls shrubs; its oversized ears pointing straight upward, while its nose trembled erratically. The small animal’s coat was nearly camouflaged against a dead overturned tree that lay in rot behind it. The rabbit examined him curiously, approaching within a few feet with a single lunge. Sean sneered back, engaging in a stare down with its lifeless black eyes that appeared to be silently judging him. The rabbit’s eyelids clenched with an expression that could be best interpreted as a scowl if it were formed on the face of a human. After several seconds of neither giving in, Sean sighed in dismay.

His low, gravelly voice broke the stalemate. “I know,” he stated in a hopeless, conceding tone.

Seemingly satisfied with the large man’s confessional, the furry creature quickly lurched to the side and scurried off under brush and around trees. It soon disappeared from sight.

“I know,” Sean repeated before his eyes slowly dropped to the ground.

He lay there in an almost relaxed state, tracing the contours of the shield with his eyes while using his fingernails to scrape the remaining filth from each and every groove. To Sean, it was a badge of honor . . . a dwindling reminder that he had a responsibility, a noble purpose in life, even though life hadn’t turned out the way he’d imagined it. He craned his head forward; the action of which formed a double chin that displayed a day’s stubble which looked prematurely gray for a man of thirty-seven years of age. He quickly used both hands to reattach the shield to the front of his pocket. He fiddled with it until he was certain it hung symmetrically.

From his reclined position, he couldn’t help but notice his exposed stomach peeking out from under his untucked, gray button-up shirt. It crested over the top of his belt, no longer resembling the defined row of abdominal muscles of which he had once been very proud. His uniformed pants, accented with black pinstripes, were severely wrinkled and stained by grass, mud, and vomit. The tips of his brown, worn-out cowboy boots pointed upward toward the morning sky.

A straining groan slid from between his large, yellowing teeth as he crunched his body up into a sitting position. With his broad shoulders, he looked like a large lonesome tree stump, indigenous to the wilderness that surrounded him. He felt dampness on his back and butt, immediately accompanied by a brief chill going through his body that was now being exposed to the open breeze. The night’s events flooded back to him. Wallowing in the familiar misery of his loss and convincing himself that there was no redemption for his mistake, the barrier of self-restraint crumbled down around him and he had found himself at the bar ordering a much-needed drink at O’Rafferty’s. It was the first of many.

He also remembered Ted O’Rafferty himself limping outside into the parking lot after him and all those drinks and snatching his car keys away.

“You ain’t driving anywhere tonight, Coleman!” the old man had lectured as he pressed the tip of his crooked wooden walking cane into Sean’s chest.

Sean recalled he’d caused the kind of scene that had become expected of him over the years, but stubborn Ted would have none of it. The old man had too much respect for Sean’s uncle to let his drunken nephew climb into his car and drive off. Hobbling back up the steps toward the front doors, Ted had screamed in his grainy, frail voice, “You can sleep out here in your car, but you ain’t driving anywhere tonight!”

Now lying among the cool grass, Sean wondered why he hadn’t taken Ted’s advice rather than attempting to walk home. The last thing he remembered was stumbling his way down the roadside and marveling at the wicked lightning storm that had illuminated the night sky to the north.

“Yeah, this is much better . . .” he muttered wryly.

His legs burned when he reached for his knees, attempting to stretch out his wide back as his shoulders lunged forward. His hand went to the back of his head, where his teeth-manicured fingernails scratched a constantly irritated area at the base of his skull. A quarter-sized patch of hairless skin resided there, rubbed raw. The blemish was surrounded by an otherwise decently kept, short flat-top crew cut.

He noticed a collection of small dusty pebbles stuck to the bottom of his elbow. The same section of skin served as home to fresh scratches and scrapes. As he glanced up at the dirt road above the ditch he was nested in, he noticed his black plastic hair comb snagged on the thin limb of a small straggly bush. It was about halfway up the hill. Above and below the bush lay a wide vertical path of flattened and broken vegetation. Sean concluded that he had fallen down from the road above before rolling down the gradual embankment. He remembered none of it, but strangely enough enjoyed a touch of satisfaction at being able to reenact the scene in his mind based on the clues before him.

“Forensics . . .” he whispered. “They’re the only true identifier to the mystery of an untold past.” He grinned as he repeated the profound statement, which he remembered hearing William Petersen iterate from a recent episode of CSI.

With County Road 2 and Meyers Bridge residing so closely above, it was a wonder no early morning drivers had seen him lying down in that ditch. Maybe they did and just didn’t care. Maybe the locals had all figured out by now that it was best not to ever engage Sean Coleman.

With his finger carefully scraping yellow crust from his eye, he raised himself up to one knee, yawning while peering out from behind the thin wispy grass that surrounded him. His gaze traced the tops of the low mountain range that sprawled familiarly along the northern horizon. He then glanced over his shoulder and along the road leading up the old wooden bridge—the same one he drove back and forth across most days.

That was when forced clarity suddenly grabbed Sean’s attention, as if he had been shaken awake. His eyes focused in surprise as he beheld an odd sight—the dark figure of a man, clad in a long trench coat, standing directly at the center of the bridge. Sean hadn’t heard him approach. The black outfit cloaking the stranger’s body couldn’t have been any more misplaced; a foreign sight to the rural area far outside of any large cities. The man was leaning forward, peering blankly out in the direction of the river’s flow. His knees pressed against the rusted steel guardrail that traveled along the edge of the bridge. It was clear that he hadn’t spotted Sean in the ditch.

The man was average in height with bright blonde, well-kept hair that was short at the sides and back, and not much longer on top. His dark pants and shoes matched his trench coat.

The bags under Sean’s eyes tightened and his mouth drooped open as he curiously examined the stranger. He noticed the man’s chest was visibly expanding and contracting with large breaths. He watched him lean forward with his hands in his pockets, peering aimlessly down at the water below. His leather dress shoes, despite being scuffed and muddied, shined under a gap of sunlight penetrating through the trees.

Even from the distance, Sean could smell money. He fancied the man as a business executive. A big-shot city slicker. The stranger was thin but athletic, with a runner’s build. He was clean shaven and appeared to have quite noticeable wide, red marks under his dark eyes, as if he normally wore glasses. Sean guessed they had to be large glasses, because the streaks traced well down to his cheek bones.

Without warning, the man’s head quickly spun to the side.

Sean, out of pure instinct, ducked down low to keep from being seen. The long grass helped conceal him from view.

The man intently investigated the stretch of road to the west and then spun to the other side to check out the east.

Sean felt a little silly for hiding; he wasn’t sure there was a point in it. He was a large and strong man who had little fear, a trait that often served as a detriment. But it was the pure fascination he was developing with the gentleman’s foreign nature that kept Sean from revealing himself. As if observing a deer in the forest, he felt compelled to stay still and silent, to keep from startling the man.

The stranger on the bridge peered back and forth several more times in a paranoid fashion. This was all the more fascinating to Sean, whose large frame sunk lower onto his hands and knees.

As if he was suddenly being timed, the man quickly regained his composure and raised his hands from his pockets. A shiny gold wristwatch, now visible, danced in the sun, sending a beam of light directly into Sean’s eyes.

Sean was forced to squint but kept his sight trained on the stranger’s odd behavior. Once the glimmer vanished, Sean’s face twisted in puzzlement. He now had clear sight of the man’s hands.

His left hand was wrapped in what looked to be a gauze bandage or maybe a towel. The bandage wasn’t clean; a crimson blemish stained the area over his palm.

“What the hell?” Sean whispered under his breath, struggling to decipher the display.

The man’s head snapped quickly from side to side again before he lifted his left leg over the guardrail and stepped onto the narrow outer edge of the wood planking. His other leg followed. He was now in a sitting position, nested across the railing with his knees facing out and his feet dangling in the empty air.

Sean’s nostrils flared as his eyes held a firm squint. Every now and then he had seen one of the locals perched in a similar position on that same bridge with a fishing pole. However, that was usually in the spring or fall when the water was moving slower—not this time of year. Either way, it was clear that the man was not a fisherman. A hint of concern flashed through Sean’s mind; he was familiar with the merciless power of the river. If the man wasn’t careful, he’d slip and fall in, and not likely make it back out.

He noticed the man’s lips moving, deliberately, as if he were talking to himself. Whatever he said could not be heard over the rush of water pounding below him. The stranger’s hand then crept into the side pocket of his trench coat. There resided a small bulge that Sean hadn’t previously noticed.

As he arched his neck up a little in an attempt to analyze what would emerge, Sean’s eyelids quickly opened to their widest extent. To his shock, a black handgun rose from the pouch.

“Jesus,” Sean muttered softly, lowering back to his hands and knees. His heart began pounding.

The pistol appeared to be a Glock, but the barrel looked a little too long. Sean knew a little something about guns. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind, like lightning bugs bouncing off the inside of a glass jar. Upon closer examination of the pistol, he realized that it wasn’t the barrel that made it appear disproportionately long; there was a silencer attached. He had never actually seen a silencer in his lifetime, but it looked just like they did on television and in magazines.

Sean’s mind was cloudy, and the hangover wasn’t helping his focus. He strained to form a sensible explanation. Then, a thought suddenly occurred to him.

Could this guy be a hit man? Had this lone stranger just taken someone out, and was he now about to dispose of the evidence?

Sean understood the ridiculousness of the notion but began to make a case for it in his mind. It would explain the way he was dressed and the style of the gun . . . or so Sean deemed reasonable. If he was a professional, however, why was he taking so long and acting so peculiar? And where was his car? How did he get there? None of it made sense. Sean felt the best course of action was to stay put and let the show play out.

The man’s shoulders deflated. He sighed before his arm whipped behind his body where his fingers searched through his back pants pocket. Shifting his hips and tugging at his arm, the extended effort allowed him to remove a black leather wallet. With the flick of his wrist, he flipped open the sides of the trifold, and gazed at whatever was inside.

Sean wondered if he was looking at a picture.

The man set his gun down sideways on a wooden post beside him, one of many of that supported the guardrail.

The stranger’s eyes drooped from what, up until then, had been direct intent. They now read a much less organized tale.

It was the same expression Sean himself had witnessed so many times—when looking in the mirror. Sorrow. Regret.

A hit-man with a conscience? he wondered.

The man’s shoulders dropped lower, and he took another deep breath. After glancing back out along the river’s path, he suddenly built up enough motivation to stand up straight. The bottom of his long trench coat spilled back to his ankles. He used his right hand to hang onto the guardrail, keeping himself balanced on the edge of the old wooden planking. The injured hand quickly shoved the wallet back into his pocket. It went in much easier than it came out, though the man’s face seemed to twist in pain at the movement. He leaned to his side to retrieve the pistol.

Sean wondered why the man was making no immediate attempt to climb back over the railing to safety.

Instead, the stranger remained in an upright position balancing his heels along the edge of the bridge while his calves rested against the guardrail. Then, he held the butt of the gun to his chest with both hands.

“Hey . . .” Sean instinctively said to himself in a whisper before quickly raising up to his knees. Remaining hidden no longer felt important.

His focus shifted back and forth from the man’s desperate eyes to the gun he held in front of his body in an awkward grip. It had suddenly become apparent that the series of actions unfolding before Sean were concluding something very different than what he’d originally thought.

The stranger shuffled the gun in his noticeably trembling hands before holding it in a conventional fashion with his right. He steadily raised his arm back over his shoulder and drew the gun awkwardly to the back side of his head, using his other hand to direct the barrel to the base of his skull.

The oddity and mystery of what he was witnessing was no longer Sean’s concern. No more questions. No more observation. He was certain the man was about to take his own life, and he wasn’t going to sit by and let it happen.

“Hey!” Sean heard himself call out in a voice loud and scary enough to gain the attention of anyone . . . unless that person was standing above the loud crashing sound of roaring water rapids.

The man didn’t flinch or show any indication that he had heard Sean’s call. He continued to hold the barrel in place with the metal tip resting against the back of his skull.

Sean’s teeth clenched as he quickly scrambled up the short hill and onto the dirt road. His footing slid on the damp grass, but his persistence gave him the traction he needed.

“Hey!” he screamed out again, projecting his voice even louder than the first time.

There was still no reaction from the man who stood about forty yards away. The motion of his arms had come to a grizzly halt. His limbs contorted back behind his body with the barrel of the gun glued to its intended target.

“Stop!” Sean roared, waving his arms frantically back and forth above his head as if he were directing a grounded plane. He prayed his wild movements would catch the man’s peripheral vision, but they received no response.

Sean engaged in an all-out sprint, something he hadn’t done much of since his high school football days. The loud modulation of crackling gravel was soon replaced by the sharp groaning of wooden boards once he broke the plain of the bridge. Air pressed heavily from his nose and mouth. With a grueling red face, his chest thrust forward with each stride. Despite the great amount of effort he was extending, he felt as if he were running underwater in a dream. His body couldn’t move as fast as his mind.

About twenty yards away now.

Sean’s jaw lifted as he prepared to deliver another verbal plea, but before a syllable could leave his mouth, his eyes glared in horror at the image of the man purposely letting his body fall forward off the bridge. Sean’s mind interpreted the scene in slow motion. Regardless of how fast his legs were pumping, there was no way of reaching the stranger in time. This curtain of helplessness was quickly replaced by numbing shock when a deep-red spray jetted through the air, just above where the stranger’s body dropped from visibility. After hovering for a second, the red mist quickly dispersed into the breeze.

There was no sound of a gunshot. The silencer had done its job.

With a coarse gasp and a wrenching cramp in his stomach, Sean immediately altered his direction toward the railing at his side. He dropped to his knees and craned his neck over the edge, just in time to see the fluttering trench coat drop into the swirling water below with a loud splash.

Water flew high into the air, but the jetting rapids quickly replaced all disruption of the river’s flow. The body disappeared into the violent churning; swallowed whole. All that was left was a burning smell and a red, discolored stream of water that dissolved into whiteness as it was quickly carried downstream.

Sean’s chest heaved in and out as he struggled for breath. He felt as if he himself was drowning. The realization of what he had just witnessed quickly sank into the depths of his stomach.

Chapter 2

Breath was in short supply as Sean’s feet fumbled briskly along the rocky edge of the river. He tried his best to keep his eyes on the black blob he’d thought he saw momentarily bobbing up and down as it shot downstream.

Thick pine branches smacked against his face, and his ankles repeatedly buckled under the weight of his body as he negotiated round, wet rocks and overturned foliage. He could taste sap on his lips. More than once his legs dipped down into freezing cold water, which drenched his pants. Yet, none of nature’s obstacles hindered resolve.

Sean himself couldn’t say where his persistence and motivation were coming from, but the helplessness he had felt while kneeling at the top of the bridge did not sit well. His heart wouldn’t let him give up. Anger encompassed him as he briskly lumbered alongside the water. The anger stewed from his failure to recognize, until it was too late, what was transpiring right before him. He also felt intense guilt over the effect his poor decision from the night before was having on his body. If his head was just a little clearer, and his legs had moved just a little faster, maybe he would have been able to stop the stranger. Then again, if he wouldn’t have gotten drunk, he wouldn’t have been there in the first place. Perhaps he was being too hard on himself.

After a few more seconds, and one last possible appearance of the bubbled-up coat, Sean lost all traces of the stranger. The water was moving too fast. The body was gone.

He stopped and dropped to his knees, refusing to take his eyes off of the river. All was eerily tranquil again. A light breeze; birds singing. It was as if nothing had ever happened.

Minutes later, his side cramped with ferocity as he strove to keep up a jogging pace. A dry belch bellowed from deep within his stomach and he tasted hours-old alcohol in his mouth. His ankle ached from twisting on a rock along the river’s edge. Still, even through straining muscles and painful panting, he lumbered his way steadily down on the dirt and gravel of County Road 2, headed toward town. Dense beads of sweat poured down the sides of his face. His drenched hair shone. Images of the horrific scene from the bridge were still fresh in his head, and the scent of a gun being fired still lingered in his nose. They all took a momentary backseat to the thoughts of what reaction he would face from the town’s authorities.

Sean had a very complicated relationship with the chief of police, Gary Lumbergh. The two were engaged in what could best be described as a rivalry that was a secret to no one. In fact, it was often the local talk amongst the citizens of Winston, where gossip was as common as the fields of purple and white columbines that decorated the surrounding landscape.

He dreaded the thought of another encounter—especially one that would surely leak to the public—but he knew he hadn’t a choice.

His heavy breathing and pounding feet hindered Sean from hearing the rattling frame and purring engine of the old, red pickup truck that approached him from behind at a snail’s pace.

“Hey, Sean!” a gravelly voice sounded out, causing Sean’s head to quickly spin.

The view of old Milo Coltraine’s gray-bearded face, hanging outside the window of his 1972 Chevy pickup, was a welcome sight. Sean came to a relieved halt and doubled over to suck in air. His hamstrings ached, and his throat felt raw. With his chest mightily expanding and contracting, he scurried up to the driver’s side door, his hand clutched at his side. He hadn’t the energy for a drawn- out explanation of what had happened at the bridge, but Milo was certainly eager to talk.

“I hear Moses Jones gave ya quite a spankin’ last night!” Milo hollered, following up with his trademark obnoxious laugh that resembled more of a howl.

The wide suede cowboy hat he always wore made Milo look like an old gold prospector from another era. At the same time, his weathered skin and the space at the center of his crooked teeth invited comparisons to a desert lizard.

Without wasting another second, Sean’s large hand latched onto the outside handle and quickly yanked the truck’s driver side door open. Milo’s eyes bulged in surprise and his laugh disappeared, not expecting such an intrusion.

“Move aside, Coltraine!” Sean snarled before shoving his open hand firmly into Milo’s shoulder.

“Hey!” Milo screamed, his voice reaching even a higher pitch as Sean shoved him effortlessly across the bench seat.

Milo was a very short, top-heavy man with little coordination. His legs kicked wildly in the air as he struggled to keep from being knocked to his back.

“What in the hell are ya doin’, boy?”

The truck never even came to a stop. It coasted slowly as Sean lifted himself up into the driver’s seat with a hardening grunt. The door closed behind him.

“Sean! Dammit!” Milo yelled, after managing to lean forward enough to latch his frail and freckled fingers onto Sean’s wrist.

Sean effortlessly shook his arm free and stomped his foot down on the gas pedal. The sudden jolt of acceleration forced Milo’s body to sink deep into his seat. Sean’s legs barely fit around the steering wheel, and his knees dug into the dashboard. He felt like a canned sardine and quickly grabbed a side lever above the floorboard and yanked on it to slide the bench seat back.

“Jesus, Milo! How short are you?” Sean grumbled more in the form of an accusation than a question.

A cardboard air freshener, shaped like a pine tree but having long ago lost its scent, swung from the rearview mirror as wind and dust filled the car through the open window. Two empty boxes of cheap cigarettes fell off the dashboard and onto Sean’s lap.

“I ain’t playin’ ‘round!” Milo threatened after finally managing to sit up straight. “Pull over and get outta my truck!”

Milo’s breath smelled strongly of corn chips, which was confirmed by the handful of crumpled-up Big Grab Fritos bags wedged into the middle of the seat cushion.

“I’m not playing neither!” Sean barked without taking his eyes off the road. “Listen to me! A man just died! I need to get into town and tell Lumbergh!”

Milo didn’t immediately respond, taking a moment to let Sean’s claim bounce around the walls of his head. “Whatcha’ talkin’ about, A man just died? What man?”

“Back at Meyers Bridge! Just now! He shot himself!”

Milo hesitated again before responding, glaring suspiciously at the side of Sean’s face.

“Are you shittin’ me, boy? There’s a dead fella at Meyers Bridge?”

“Yes! I mean . . . No! He jumped into the river!”

Sean couldn’t verbalize a coherent explanation and had little patience to. He was out of breath, his heart was racing, and his primary concern was reaching town.

Milo, however, wasn’t about to let Sean off the hook with such a cryptic statement. He grabbed his shoulder and used his other hand to point an accusatory finger.

“Ya said he shot himself! Then ya said he jumped inta’ the river! This story smells like horse-shit ta’ me!”

Sean’s head shook in frustration while a sour scowl twisted across his lips.

The truck tore around a sharp corner and onto the paved road of Main Street, leaving behind it a wide cloud of dust. Sean scratched the back of his head with one hand, causing small flakes of dried skin to drop to his shirt collar. His other hand stayed tightly glued to the steering wheel.

“Milo! I just . . . I don’t have time for your shit right now!”

Milo didn’t take kindly to the words. “Oh! Oh! I’m so sorry! Ya stole ma’ truck! Whatcha think Lumbergh’s gonna say about that? Huh?”

“Milo . . . I don’t give a shit what Lumbergh says! When I’m done talking to him, you can tell him your whole life story. For now, just sit there and shut up!” Sean’s head turned toward the old man for the first time, and a frightening glare finally earned compliance.

Milo was visually furious, but the look in Sean’s eye scared the old man. Sean had a reputation for being a loose cannon, and Milo knew better than to light the fuse. He sat back in his seat and folded his arms in front of him, shaking his head in disapproval.

The engine roared louder as Sean picked up speed. Main Street was a straightaway right into town.

Peering at Sean from the corner of his eye, Milo spoke in a less fiery tone. “Ya know . . . All ya had ta’ do was ask, and I’d a given ya a ride ta’ town.”

“Milo . . . No offense, but I could have jogged to town faster than if I’d have let you drive.”

Chapter 3

Every morning, Chief Gary Lumbergh looked forward to that first cup of coffee. That day’s flavor was Ethiopian Longberry. Its rich aroma elegantly drifted up from the steaming ceramic mug that sat proudly on a coaster on top of the chief ’s redwood oak desk. It spread an ambiance of warmth and comfort through the small office, reminding Lumbergh of the big city. The chief had recently become a member of a coffee of the month club, which he had signed up for over the Internet. This was the premium stuff. Gourmet; much too coveted and high-quality to find at the local supermarket.

Clad in a neatly pressed, light blue dress shirt with rolled up sleeves and a sleek, navy blue tie, Lumbergh didn’t fit the mold of the typical small town lawman. In fact, he was about as far removed from the laid-back and hospitable Andy Griffith–type anyone could possibly be.

While he was well respected by the citizens of Winston and neighboring communities, it wasn’t Lumbergh’s charm or demeanor that made him a hit with the locals. He had a name and quite a resume.

Unlike most of its citizens, Lumbergh hadn’t grown up in Winston, Colorado. He hadn’t even stepped foot inside the state until two years earlier, when he left a prestigious position as a police lieutenant in Chicago. There he’d been involved in numerous high-profile cases that spanned a range of crimes. Murderers, rapists, bank robbers—Lumbergh had worked them all. There, he had quickly become a seasoned veteran of law enforcement, receiving numerous promotions, all of which were earned before his thirty-fourth birthday. Back then, the sky was the limit for Lumbergh.

For the chief, those days seemed so long ago. A quickly fading memory. Now, his largest responsibilities usually involved delinquent high school kids, domestic disputes, or public intoxication—often a combination of the three. He regularly questioned his consequential decision to leave the big time . . . but only to himself. He had made a commitment, and that commitment left him as a big fish in the small pond of Winston.

Chief Gary Lumbergh’s name was bigger than he was, at least physically. He was a short and thin man, standing at around five-foot-six and 135 pounds of pure, unadulterated confidence. Short, slicked-back, dark hair only partially covered the thinning area along his scalp, but Lumbergh wasn’t self-conscious at all about how he looked. Always clean shaven and feverishly chewing on a stick of gum, he had a way of getting things done.

He was a certified workaholic, living in a world that never moved fast enough for his liking. For him, patience was not a virtue—it was a shortcoming. It wasn’t uncommon for him to be seen snapping his fingers to hurry up the testimony of a complainant or feverishly writing down notes in a cryptic form of abbreviation that only he could decipher.

Cowboy hats and cowboy boots—Lumbergh never wore either. In fact, he despised them both so much that he forbade his officers from wearing them while on duty. The uniforms that he approved weren’t much different than what he had worn proudly during the early days of his career: black shoes and a black tie over navy blue. If a subordinate wasn’t professional enough to look professional, he or she had no place in Lumbergh’s squad. The chief took his job extremely seriously and demanded perfection. Of course, perfection was a relative term when it came to the citizens of Winston. Still, he was persistent in striving for it.

It was a slow morning, like most mornings in Winston, yet Lumbergh was feeling uncharacteristically cheerful. Unlike most people, he enjoyed working on the weekends. What little crime that did occur tended to happen then.

Leaning back in his burgundy leather desk chair and clasping his fingers behind his head, he admired the numerous plaques and certificates that decorated his office walls. They made him feel proud. They made him feel legitimate. They let him remember. With a sly smile, he glanced down across his desktop at a large black-and-white framed photo of him with his arms wrapped around a pretty brunette with long hair, bright brown eyes, and a dazzling smile.

Lumbergh’s office was extremely organized. Artwork hung symmetrically along freshly painted walls, the tile floor had been recently waxed, and all furniture was free of dust.

Outside his door, he enjoyed the sound of file cabinets being opened and closed, and keys being typed. It meant work was getting done, or at least sounded like it was getting done. He liked his people busy. In fact, as small as it was, his office often helped neighboring divisions with their workload. The unusual practice helped increase the chances that Lumbergh would be involved in more interesting work than could be found inside his own town limits. He also felt it somewhat of an obligation, considering his skillset.

Being from the big city, he was an automatic celebrity to the rural townsfolk. To them he was articulate, knowledgeable, and commanding. Many seemed to place greater value on him than they did themselves, and who was Lumbergh to argue? He won a landslide election victory over the previous chief, who couldn’t compete with the big-time law enforcement experience a former police lieutenant could bring. The incumbent was so old and ready for retirement anyway that he later thanked Lumbergh for running against him. The voters always supported Lumbergh. His latest funding request for a new police cruiser won almost unanimous support from the public. In fact, records showed that only one person in the town voted against that initiative, and he had a pretty good idea who that person was.

The chief ’s eyes shifted toward his coffee mug, displaying an almost criminal longing. He had never experienced the utopia of Ethiopian Longberry, but message-board reviews claimed it to be exquisite. The wait was over. Anticipating the sharp, winy flavor and slightly tangy kick, he stretched out his small hand for a taste of heaven. The mug roasted in his palm as he leaned back in his chair and raised its rim gingerly to his lips. He wanted to savor the experience.

Without warning, the piercing screech of rubber skidding on pavement blared intrusively from the outside parking lot and through the thin walls of the police office. The hairs on the back of Lumbergh’s neck stood straight up, and his body instinctively jackknifed forward. Hot coffee intrusively streamed down the sides of his chin and onto his shirt and tie.

“Goddammit!” he yelled without reservation. His voice echoed through the small room and into the outside hallway.

With his face twisted in anger, he sprung up to his feet and promptly scanned the room for a towel or napkin. There were none to be found in the neat office. His thin arms worked fervently, opening up every drawer in his desk until he spotted a large legal-sized envelope that he found to be empty. He snatched it with his fingers and stomped briskly to his door where he noticed the rest of his small squad curiously gathering in the narrow lobby at the front entrance of the building.

Holding the envelope to his chest and quickly recognizing its liquid-absorbing deficiency, he stuck his head out into the hallway. From there he could see his officer, Jefferson, who had just returned from patrol. He was peering interestedly out through a window at the top half of one of the dual front doors.

The muffled sound of two people arguing was just barely audible from outside, and the scent of Pine-Sol momentarily distracted Lumbergh’s senses. Still he thought he heard a familiar voice, which compelled him to forget about his coffee-stained clothes.

“Tell me that’s not who I think it is,” he loudly said through narrowed eyes and a fuming scowl.

Jefferson whipped his head around. There was uneasiness in the officer’s eyes. “Yeah, it’s Sean. He’s with old Milo. And neither one looks none too happy!”

Lumbergh’s eyes rose toward the ceiling. His shoulders lowered as he exhaled an embittered grunt. “Everybody, get back to work!” he firmly directed. “Jefferson, you handle it! I don’t want to be disturbed with his bullshit this early in the morning!”

An audible gulp lifted from Jefferson’s throat. “Me?” he asked, hesitantly.

Lumbergh shot him a glare much like a parent would toward a child who had just spilled a glass of milk.

Jefferson quickly lifted his shoulders and broadened his chest, not wanting to disappoint the man whose approval he so often sought. Licking his upper lip and composing himself, he delivered a firm nod to his boss before turning his attention back to the window.

The chief ducked back inside his office and slammed the thin wooden door shut before retrieving a bottle of Evian water from a small refrigerator beside his desk. While the sound of footsteps shifting back to their cubicles drifted underneath his door, he dabbed water over the top of his coffee-stained shirt.

He knew this would be a good test for Jefferson. The officer had shown hints of promise in the past, but at times tended to lack the proper initiative that Lumbergh felt the job required. The two had spoken of the topic on many occasions, and he had made it clear to Jefferson exactly what was expected of him.

Sean and Milo ranted back and forth like an old married couple engaged in a spat. Their colorful, quickly traded insults grew louder as they neared.

The tall and lanky Jefferson extended his long arm along the door and pushed it open wide for the two to enter.

From behind his desk, Lumbergh could hear Coltraine wildly scream out, “Jefferson! Jefferson! He stole ma’ truck! He kidnapped me!”

Lumbergh’s eyes widened and his fists clenched. He was nearly tempted to immediately dash out into the hallway and launch a verbal assault on Sean—the man who seemed hell-bent on extending as much complication into life as possible. He fought the urge, deciding to give Jefferson a chance to prove himself. Lumbergh rested his elbows on the top of his desk and buried his face in his right hand while using his left to reach into his pocket for a stick of gum.

“Here we go,” he whispered under his breath.

“Is Lumbergh in his office?” Sean asked loudly, more in the form of a statement than a question.

With his chest bloated, Sean didn’t intend on stopping at the lobby. He kept walking, making a beeline for Lumbergh’s door.

“Not so fast!” Jefferson ordered in a much-practiced tone that was impressive in its authoritativeness. He held his arm up like a tollgate, blocking Sean’s path.

Sean stopped and glared at him in subtle surprise before lowering his eyebrows. “Jefferson, get out of my way!”

With Sean momentarily distracted, Coltraine made a move to quickly try and shuffle around his large body in hopes of getting to Lumbergh’s office first. Without taking his eyes off Jefferson, however, Sean grabbed the back of Coltraine’s flannel shirt collar and held him in place. Coltraine let out a gagging noise as his top button pressed right up against his Adam’s apple.

“There’s a policy in this office, Sean,” stated Jefferson. “Complaints come to me. They don’t go straight to the chief. He’s a busy man.”

So far, Lumbergh liked what he was hearing. He continued to listen from his chair, leaning forward with his fingers forming a temple across the top of his desk. His mouth grounded a wad of Trident. He expected his men to deal with adversity, and there wasn’t a better test of adversity than Sean Coleman.

“Busy doing what?” Sean ranted. “Signing autographs? This is important, dammit! If I needed someone to get me out of a parking ticket, then I’d come to you! This is big time, Jeffrey!”

Jefferson held his ground, taking exception to being referred to as “Jeffrey.” He hated the nickname that Sean had given him, and Sean knew it.

“Big time? Oh really?” sneered Jefferson. “Just like when Emma at the laundromat was a big time drug dealer, or when you thought that kid down at the gas station was a big time international terrorist!”

Lumbergh held his fist in the air, and then retracted his elbow with an excited whisper. “Yes!” Jefferson was earning his pay that day.

Sean’s right lower eyelid began to twitch as he glared right through Jefferson. His face turned red with anger, and his teeth sunk into his lower lip.

“Ya thought that young fella at the gas station was a dang terrorist?” Milo asked with enlightened eyes and some pep to his voice. His cheeks turned red and a half-second later he howled out in piercing laughter. “I hadn’t heard that one! A terrorist of all things! Can ya imagine?”

Sean paid no attention to Milo. His pupils shrank and all he saw was fire. Jefferson had grown nearly eight inches taller since his high school days, but in Sean’s eyes he was still the same mope, the same timid and awkward kid who Sean used to terrorize in gym class. Who was he to be telling Sean off?

The longer Sean’s intense glare lasted, the tighter Jefferson’s stomach cramped; Sean could see it on the officer’s face. Jefferson paled, and Sean knew he was thinking of those distant memories of being on the receiving end of wedgies and pink-bellies—at Sean’s hands. If the two men were anywhere else but the police station, Sean figured Jefferson might have immediately run in the opposite direction, also much like the old days; it was an effective tactic he’d used to escape Sean Coleman’s bullying back in high school.

Sean saw the resolve slip over Jefferson’s face. Sean was on his turf now. Jefferson had the backup and the authority, and Sean knew that Jefferson’s boss was likely listening. The officer needed to hang tough. It wasn’t every day that someone had the opportunity to put Sean Coleman in his place.

Sean wondered if he’d try it.

Jefferson continued with a forced, wide, condescending smile. “So tell me, big time, what’s today’s beef? Did Moses Jones cheat in that game of eight-ball last night? I heard he whooped your ass!” His tongue slid sleekly across his lower lip in gratification.

A muffled laugh could be heard from someone down the hall, close to the fax machine.

Sean’s right arm trembled, and he formed a concealed fist. He wanted to punch Jefferson right in the face—right above that cheesy handlebar mustache. He pictured flattening that fat, rounded nose, and he relished the image of blood squirting from it. It took him everything he had to remind himself where he was and what Jefferson’s uniform meant as far as police charges went. Sean forced composure upon himself, slowly nodding his head up and down.

With a burdened grin, Sean said, “I wasn’t with Moses Jones last night, Jefferson . . . I was with Becky!”

Jefferson’s eyes widened, and his teeth were visible at the mention of his wife.

The same voice by the fax machine now let out a low, “Uh-oh.”

Sean was fully aware that Jefferson and his wife had been separated for about a month, and he took great enjoyment in reminding him of it.

All the confidence that Jefferson had been displaying left in an instant, and his nerve dissolved. His lip quivered, and he glanced at the watching eyes of his coworkers, who he felt were about to judge him by his reaction. Before he could compose himself enough to retort, Sean opened his fist, spun, and grabbed Milo’s velvet hat from the top of his head. He pivoted back around and shoved the hat firmly into the center of Jefferson’s chest.

“Make yourself useful and hang this up!” he growled.

The force of Sean’s strong arm caused Jefferson to stumble backward on the slick tile. The back of Jefferson’s long legs met the armrest of a wooden bench that stood behind him. He lost his footing and fell like a ton of bricks—down to his butt on the unforgiving floor.

Sean hadn’t intended for Jefferson to fall but didn’t feel bad for causing it. Who does he think he is, with that condescending dog and pony show? he thought. He deserves to be made a fool of in front of everyone.

“Sean!” The name lingered in the air, drawn out as only Lumbergh could stretch it.

His voice erupted like a volcano, prompting everyone in the office to stare with wide eyes at the sight of the small, wiry man now standing outside his door. The chief ’s legs were spread, and both fists were clenched.

Breathing hard, Sean glared into Lumbergh’s eyes before noticing the veins protruding at both sides of his reddened face. It wasn’t the first time Sean had seen him this pissed; it wasn’t the first time Sean had made him this pissed.

“Well, well, well, Hollywood. It looks like you’re not too busy to talk to me after all,” Sean said with a quick smirk.

Lumbergh despised the nickname Hollywood. Sean had given it to him because of the celebrity-like adoration the chief enjoyed from the rest of the town. Lumbergh slowly and intensely shifted his head from side to side. He looked about ready to blow a gasket.

“Coltraine!” Lumbergh screamed. “Jefferson will take down your complaint, and I strongly urge you to file charges!”

“Yes, sir,” the hatless Coltraine timidly answered, taking a step forward and then back.

“Sean . . . in my office! Now!”

Lumbergh didn’t wait for a reaction. He turned and stomped back inside through his doorway.

Grabbing the knob tightly in his fingers, he waited for Sean to enter before slamming the door shut behind them. The force caused the window shade hanging from the top of the door to lose its hold and fall sloppily to the floor. It unraveled as quickly as Lumbergh’s patience.

Before Sean could open his mouth to state his case, Lumbergh gargled out a loud spontaneous, incoherent sound immediately followed by a raw cough. The chief ’s unhinged anger had caused his chewing gum to slip down his throat. His eyes bulged, and he immediately hacked it back up and out of his mouth. The wad would have fallen from his lips to the floor, but Lumbergh purposely used his own hand to angrily slap it in Sean’s direction. It bounced off of Sean’s chest, causing the big man to flinch.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Sean yelled in outrage.

Lumbergh heard nothing but the fizzling between his own ears as his eyes traced Sean’s body up and down.

“Jesus, Sean!” Lumbergh bellowed with his nose scrunched in disgust. “What did you do? Piss yourself?”

Sean looked down at his pants which were still wet from the river.

Lumbergh pointed at his lower pant leg. “And what’s that? Puke? You’re a goddamned mess!”

“Gary, just shut the hell up and listen!” Sean yelled impatiently with his nostrils wide. His outburst roared out like the call of a large animal.

Necks were craned, and eyes peered over the walls of cubicles. Outside Lumbergh’s office, a moment of deafening silence allowed for the sound of a sheet of paper to be heard making contact with the floor. Above it, a secretary standing in front of a copy machine stared intently with her mouth hung open.

Lumbergh wasn’t going to be intimidated. He wouldn’t let Sean continue. This was his house. He had all of the authority here. “Who the hell do you think you are, walking in here and spouting off like a lunatic? Those are my subordinates out there!”

Before Sean could answer, Lumbergh raised his arm out straight, pointing toward the door. “You have no right to come in here and disrespect me and get physical with one of my men! This isn’t flag football at the park! This is where I work! You come in here with beer on your breath and looking like you slept in a trash dumpster last night, and—”

“I wouldn’t have had to disrespect you if your ape would have just listened to me!”

“Why should he? Why should any of them?” Lumbergh was livid. The pitch of his voice was higher than he intended it to be as he raised his shoulders and threw his arms up in the air. His wide eyes blinked erratically. “They’ve heard all the same bullshit stories that I have! I mean, look at it from their point of view, Sean! Do you have any idea how many hours my people have wasted on your hair-brained theories and childlike imagination? And today, I’m sure you’re here with another one . . .”

“So?” Sean retorted with a taunting shoulder shrug. “It’s not like they have anything better to do! They should be thanking me for getting them out of your boot camp for a few hours! Now listen to me . . .”

Lumbergh raised his finger at Sean to cut in.

“. . . a man died today, Gary!” Sean yelled out, breaking the stalemate of wild banter.

Lumbergh’s mouth refused to follow up and instead was left gaping open. His arm slowly lowered back to his side. His demeanor went from outrage to awestruck in the time it took Sean to relay one simple but chilling statement. His eyes blinked as they peered into Sean’s.

“A man died today,” Sean repeated.

Chapter 4

“That doesn’t make sense!” stormed Lumbergh with his arms crossed and his slender body aligned against the front of his desk. “Why would someone kill himself by shooting himself in the back of his head?”

His eyes were filled with doubt, and the skepticism didn’t go unnoticed by Sean. After noticing a large peculiar coffee stain on Lumbergh’s shirt, Sean replied with a head shake. “I don’t know.” A moment of silence ensued and with a glance at the ceiling, he shrugged his shoulders and offered up: “I can tell you one thing; he wasn’t Chinese.”

“Chinese?” Lumbergh enquired, interested. He leaned forward, his eyebrows narrowing the gap between them. “What do you mean?”

Sean’s eyes returned to the ceiling, and his tongue slid to the corner of his mouth. He momentarily pondered his own words while trying to recall the details of an old episode of Hunter that featured a disgraced immigrant taking his own life. He soon shook his head in digression. “Oh, never mind . . . I’m thinking of a dagger through the stomach.”

Lumbergh deflated back to his desk. “That’s Japanese,” he muttered indignantly under his breath, frustrated with himself for giving Sean an inch. “And it’s called seppuku.”

An annoyed and unimpressed grunt escaped Sean’s mouth. “Well, very good; someone just earned themselves a gold star by their name.”

Lumbergh ignored him, not desiring to fuel another unproductive outburst. “I’m trying to make sense of your story, Sean. You don’t have the best track record for credibility.”

“Oh, Jesus, Gary, don’t start this shit again! Do you think I’m just making this whole thing up?”

Lumbergh’s eyes left Sean for a moment, taking a breath and searching for the right words. “I’m not saying that, Sean. But you have a way of letting your imagination run wild. You know you do.”

Sean glared at him, shaking his head in disgust. “I’m not making this up, Gary. It happened, goddammit. Right in front of my eyes!”

Lumbergh took a breath. “Sean, you had a lot to drink last night. I think that’s pretty safe to say—”

“Oh, give me a fucking break! I’m hungover. I’m not crazy.” Sean’s blood was beginning to simmer again. “Are you going to check this out or not?”

Lumbergh looked sympathetically into Sean’s eyes—the same way a father would look at a son who just missed the game-winning field goal. “Sean . . . I’ve given you a lot of leeway for obvious reasons . . .”

Out of frustration, Sean’s face twisted and he quickly lunged forward, slamming his fist hard across the top of the desk.

Lumbergh’s body jolted, but he kept his cool, raising his eyebrows to direct a silent warning.

“I’ve never asked you for anything, Gary!” Sean shouted. “And I don’t want you to start doing me any favors! I just want you to do your goddamned job! You run this place like a Chicago police department, but when someone reports a dead body, you blow him off? Are you kidding me?”

“Enough!” Lumbergh held up both palms in front of Sean’s chest. With his eyes large in sincerity, he said, “I’m going to check it out, okay?”

“You are?” said a stunned Sean. He alertly stood up straight.

Lumbergh held his hand beside his mouth and yelled, “Jefferson!”

Three seconds later, Jefferson was heard racing down the hallway. He opened the office door and poked his head inside. He purposely didn’t make eye contact with Sean.

Lumbergh didn’t look at his officer. “Pull the cruiser around back. We’re going to Meyers Bridge.”

A sly smile formed on Sean’s face, and he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “And make it snappy, Jefferson,” he added in a gloating tone.

“Shut up, Sean,” said Lumbergh.

Jefferson pretended not to hear the exchange and attempted to leave, but Lumbergh stopped him.

“But first,” the chief said, “give Sean’s uncle a call and have him pick him up.”

At the same time, but in different tones, both Jefferson and Sean replied with, “What?”

Lumbergh held his hand up to Sean. “You heard me, Jefferson.”

Even before the door closed behind the officer, Sean was up in arms. “What are you calling him for? I’m coming out with you guys!”

Lumbergh shook his head and discreetly rolled his eyes. “We can take it from here, Sean. I’ve got the location. I’ll have Jefferson call you if we have any questions.”

“This is unbelievable! This is un-fucking-believable! I witnessed the whole thing!”

“And I listened to your entire story,” Lumbergh sharply added. “Now you have to let me do my job! If what you say is true, a crime wasn’t even committed. This will be open and shut.”

Sean’s eye twitched as he glared back at Lumbergh.

The chief lowered his head and took a deep breath. He then pressed his thumb against his police chief ’s badge, which shined proudly on his dress-shirt pocket. “Sean, this badge means that I have a duty to the people of Winston. They elected me to serve them to the best of my abilities. I’m convinced that having you there would only hinder our investigation.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Jefferson and I aren’t going to have time to answer all of your questions and entertain all of your theories. And we certainly don’t need your abrasive attitude at the scene.”

Lumbergh meant every word he said. Sean was a liability—a dreamer with a wild imagination—which often led him to overstep an imagined level of authority he never had in the first place.

“Gary, come on! I know what I’m doing!”

Lumbergh took offense to his words. “No, you don’t, Sean! No, you don’t! Watching