Night Eyes (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 2)
Read Night Eyes (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 2) Online
Authors: Claire Stibbe
NIGHT EYES
Claire Stibbe
Night Eyes is evidence of an emerging, exceptional talent in contemporary crime fiction. Prepare to be transported to the dark and terrifying woodlands of New Mexico and get ready for some unexpected turns in the trails!
~ Dr. Marco Storey, PhD in Narrative Theory & Criticism
.
Skillful, intelligent plotting and masterful writing. This is an author to follow and a book you simply must read.
~
B.A. Morton, Author of Bedlam and Twisted.
166 Sol de Oro Court
Corrales, NM 87048
United States of America
NIGHT EYES
The second in the Detective Temeke Crime Series
Copyright © Claire Stibbe 2016
.
Kindle Edition
Published in the United States by
Noble Lizard Publishing.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing of Noble Lizard Publishing.
Alternatively, the author can be contacted at her website at
www.cmtstibbe.com
.
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9906004-7-3
ISBN: 978-0-9906004-6-6
Acknowledgements
My thanks to New Mexico for providing the inspiration for the Detective Temeke Series. To my mother for giving me a safe and loving home, and to my father who gave me his love of language and books.
Special thanks to all the detectives and police officers I have ever worked with, especially for their dedication and sacrifice. To Babs, Jean, Karen and Kristin for their invaluable advice. I am deeply grateful. And, of course, a huge thank you to Mark and Cherith, the wonderful editors at Kingdom Writing Solutions, for molding the clay into something worth reading.
As always, I owe the greatest thanks possible to Jeff and Jamie. Without your love and encouragement, this would never have been possible. And thank you, God, for loving us the way we are.
Claire Stibbe
Albuquerque, New Mexico
March 2016
For
new releases, book updates and book signings why not sign up for our newsletter
here
.
Follow Claire on
Facebook
and
Twitter
TABLE OF CONTENTS
He struggled alone in that deep, dark place, head tilted back as far as it would go. Water plugged his ears and the sharp pain between his ribs reminded him to take small breaths to preserve what little oxygen he had left.
It was some kind of urban runoff, a sewer that had become filled with sea water from one of the worst storms he had ever seen.
All because he’d kissed the girl.
He drew a bite of oxygen into his lungs and sunk slowly to the bottom. He tried to see something in those murky waters, pushed off again, broke through the surface and gasped for air. No way out, not that he could see.
During Basic Underwater Demolition Training, the instructors wouldn’t allow a twenty-one-year-old SEAL to die in a watery grave, not with their shark eyes. The next phase was drown proofing, and that meant bobbing and swimming and somersaults, hands tied behind your back. Lucky his hands weren’t tied, nor were his feet.
Where am I?
He tried to remember.
They had been on the beach that morning, shivering in the darkness and covered in mud. Surf torture. He couldn’t see the ocean behind him, but he could hear the waves. It took hundreds of push-ups to get warm, body sagging in the front leaning rest, waiting for permission to recover.
He remembered the instructor, a cold hulk of a man who did the PT with them, voice piercing through the early dawn. “Run with your thighs. Keep your arms loose. And breathe!” If they looked sleepy, they did it all over again.
He kept up with the pack, never looked back, didn’t even blink when one of his team ‘rang the bell.’ He wouldn’t quit. He’d never see her again if he did.
And here he was in a storm drain, a torrent of sea water gushing in through a cement pipe and large enough to stand in. Screaming to get out, screaming to be free and every part of him craved air.
Where were the rest of his class
?
They were gone, that’s what. Him against the instructor, him against that terrible accusation. He hated everything. Everyone. It started when he saw the girl, frail like a little brown bird. He knew she wanted him, eyes following his every move. If felt good. It felt wrong. And he had fought it with every muscle in his head.
Now that same head felt tender on the left side and he thought he could smell blood, thought he could hear shouting. Another test perhaps, where the instructors watched from an observation chamber? Goosebumps pricked his flesh and his mind began to focus on his heart rate and the sudden peace he felt.
Be calm. Block the negative. Slow each breath, control the rhythm.
He had done more pushups than he could count, sit-ups, chin-ups and runs. Tried to get into shape, tried to be like the best of them. A friend persuaded him to take the PST, pushed him to swim five hundred yards in eight-and-a-half minutes. Called him Dingo. Because he could run.
It seemed so long ago when he swam in that wide ocean, waves breaking about his face and blurring his vision. A large bird flew overhead, a winged shadow in a dark sky. It blocked out the sun for a time, a climbing spec breasting the morning wind.
He had a fast crawl stroke, faster than the rest of them until he felt the vicious stab of cramp in his right calf. Kick-and-breathe… kick-and-breathe. He switched to sidestroke, had no technique whatsoever, except the will to finish as fast as he could. And he did finish. Eight minutes and twenty-seven seconds with three seconds to spare.
He barely remembered six pull-ups from a dead hang. He did eleven. Some did twelve. Trained to ensure that all muscles had adequate strength, a split body routine, no muscle left out. He should have been proud of himself.
His inner voice told him to give up, told him to look forward to a steaming cup of coffee. What it didn’t tell him was that he would drink it in front of his teammates, watch them persevere, watch them become heroes. If he didn’t survive the trials to go on to BUD/S, he would never become a SEAL, an unstoppable force, an elite group that the United States of America sends to do the impossible during times of war.
He gripped even harder then, got past the chaffing of sand on raw skin, the burning of salt water, the lack of sleep. He always looked past the fierce blue eyes of his instructor, through them, around them, anywhere but straight at them.
If only he hadn’t seen the girl in the surf that Friday night all alone, cheeks spattered with tears. Looked like she’d been slapped around a bit. Looked like she wanted some comfort. He did a lot more than comfort her. Rolled in the sand for a while, held her close, loved her until the morning.
June… the year 2000, he thought. Blood poured down his face and the slit above his eye yawned wider than a crater. He’d need stitches when he got out. If he got out.
Something different. His feet touched bottom and he felt the final catch in his breath.
Hell Week. That was the last thing he remembered.
Adam peered through the windshield of his scoutmaster’s car as they approached the house. A bitter January wind butted the trees and snaked in through a slit in his window. Street lamps stood like sentries and staggered every fifty feet. He knew it was fifty. His dad had told him a hundred times.
He noticed the truck parked about twenty yards from the front gate. Black if he could bet on it. It wasn’t a security car. Looked more like a Silverado with a bull bar on the front fender.
He pulled a Bible tract and a pen out of his pocket. His dad told him to write down license plates, especially if there were any unfamiliar cars in the neighborhood.
“See that truck,” Adam said, craning his neck around as they passed it. “Z71, black rims, even got blacked out bowties.”
“God only knows how you see all that stuff,” Wendover said, leaning out to dial the access code of the front gate. “You could be a ferret.”
“Dad says I could be a pilot.”
They swept into a circular driveway covered in a light coating of snow and floodlit by solar lights. A single lantern, which hung over wrought iron front doors, squeaked in the wind and the constant rumble of cars could be heard from Coors Boulevard.
“OK Adam?” Wendover said as the car grunted to a halt.
“Yes, sir. What time is it?”
“Ten thirty.”
Half an hour late
, Adam thought. His dad would be mad. Probably make him rake leaves tomorrow and time him with a stopwatch.
“Thanks for the ride.” Adam hauled his backpack from the rear seat and stepped out into the cool night air.
Goosebumps sprang along his arms and spine, and he felt jumpy. Dropping his pack by the front door, he blew warm air on his hands and watched Wendover pull away. The back tires sprayed up a jet of water from a nearby puddle, break lights blinking until they were gone altogether. Squinting through a cloud of exhaust, he walked down the driveway to the front gate, listening to the rhythmic hum as it closed.
One last look.
The truck was still there, parked beneath a sycamore. It had a nice lift on it, made it look bigger than it wasn’t and there were a few scrapes along the front right fender. Must have belonged to one of the staff.
He jogged back to the house, unlocked the door and dropped the backpack between a chair and a mahogany chest. The hallway was lit by a single beam escaping through the half-open living room door; the only light on downstairs. Flames crackled and popped in the fireplace and he could smell the fresh scent of cedar.
A swishing sound made him pause, stopped him from closing the front door. Had to be the sliding patio doors at the back of the house, might have been dad letting the dog in. And then he heard a voice in the living room, accusing, loud.
“Remember me?”
“How did you get in?” His father’s voice sounded tense and something told Adam to be quiet, something he couldn’t define.
He could hear leaves skittering on the driveway behind him. Ahead, a sliding sound and then a click. His feet whispered across the hardwood floor until he reached the table in the center of the hallway. He slipped under it, crouched behind the pedestal. Looking at a slit of living room beyond the partially open doors, he could see his dad sitting on the couch, eyes peering over the rim of a newspaper at someone Adam couldn’t see.
He had been handsome once, or so Adam’s mother said, and now the signs of old age showed on those graying temples. His eyes seemed to narrow at something on the far side of the room and then they widened. He nodded, folded that newspaper and set it on the cushion beside him.
“Bet you thought you’d ever see me again,” the voice persisted. “Bet you
hoped
you’d never see me again.”
His father made an attempt at the man’s name, finger pointing limply in the air.
“Surely, you haven’t forgotten. Look at you. Mayor of Albuquerque. Done well for yourself.”
“Why don’t you sit down.”
“That wouldn’t be smart.” The man moved forward, just enough so Adam could see him. Hair tied up in a man-bun, jaw tight and hard and a gun in his hand. “You remember how it was.”
But his father couldn’t remember, forehead locked in a frown and finger running along the edge of his chin. “We can talk about it if you like.”
“It’s too late for that.” The man wore a leather holster wrapped around one thigh and his jeans were faded and ripped. “Didn’t even answer my letters.”
“I never got your letters.”
“No. Of course you didn’t. But you know don’t you? You’ve always known.”
“Known what?”
“What’s mine’s mine. And I can prove it. There’s not a hair on a man’s head that doesn’t tell a story.” The man placed a document on the coffee table, fingers swiveling it towards the Mayor. “Sign it. Then we’ll have all the proof we need.”
Adam recoiled and took a lungful of breath. Those same hands were covered in black leather gloves, like the gloves a robber would wear. Every instinct told him to stay still, told him to shrink into the shadows like a rat. If he was smart, he could crawl backwards into the kitchen and call the police.
Don’t make him mad, dad. Don’t make him mad.
A cold draft distracted him. He glanced back through the open front door, at the dark driveway beyond and the open gate. A thick flurry of snow settled on the ground with a whispered hush and he could see the trees; some hidden behind the deepening shift of darkness and some rustling in an occasional breeze. He could run for it.
Murphy began to growl, low at first and then he must have opened his mouth because it was always louder when he opened his mouth. He had probably been lying on a brown beanie bag under the kitchen counter, only now his claws clacked across the tile floor before bursting into the living room, snarling all the way. Like the household cavalry charging to a Labrador’s bark.
The man turned towards the sound, eyebrows arched, gun leveled, and he staggered backwards as the dog barreled into his thigh. Two shots echoed around the room and the sound of shattering glass. The old dog, faster than a torpedo, made a wide loop, shot back through the hallway and out through the front door.
Adam began to pant, heartbeat thrashing in his ears. He closed his eyes then, snapping them open at the sound of a moan. His father lay on the floor, cheek pressed against the carpet. Pale eyes flickered for a moment, grazing along the floor before fixing themselves on the hall table. He was mouthing something, lips curling over bloody teeth, barely a whimper over the snapping flames in the grate.
The man steadied his gun, cleared the slide and thumbed the safety. He snatched two tie wraps from his pocket and tied the Mayor’s hands behind his back. All the while he muttered and cursed, stooped to pick up two shell casings that had bounced across the carpet, one under the table, the other as far as the grate. He rammed them in his jeans pocket, grabbed the document and threw it in the fire.
Adam felt the blood drain away from his face. He struggled to breathe, to move, to do something. All he could do was back away on all fours until he cleared the kitchen door. Easing the cell phone out of his pocket, he tapped 911.
The hallway was visible through the gap in the frame and he could see the curled arm of the banister until the lights went out.
“Police,” he whispered into the mouthpiece. “There’s a man… in my house… with a gun.”
The beam of a flashlight made him hit the
END
button. It came from the living room sweeping from side to side and curling towards the back of the hallway. The air around him became suddenly heavy and he was conscious of the quiver of a full bladder.
Someone must have gone for help. Someone must have seen or heard something, surely?
There were no sirens coming along the back lanes and no dogs barking. Not even Murphy, an ex-military working dog, a combat-tracker. Adam felt abandoned, cheated. The dog should never have left him.
A hand snatched his phone and covered his mouth, nearly took his breath away. He kicked and wriggled as hard as he could, but his mouth was covered in duct tape. He was lifted off the ground and forced towards the front door. Outside he could feel the air moving, felt the pressure in his lungs. His feet never hit the ground, carried over the snowy driveway towards the front gate. Then he remembered something his father once said.
If you have to leave home without telling anyone, if you’re taken by force, leave evidence.
The scout troop was a church troop and his pockets were often filled with Bible tracts. Tonight he only had a few. Probably ten scruffy pieces of paper, last he looked. His hands weren’t bound so he slipped two fingers into his pocket, scrunched one into a ball, watched it flutter away on a puff of wind. He had no idea what it said. No idea if the police would ever find it.
What if the man saw it? Adam didn’t want the barrel of a gun pressed against his head and filthy words spitting in his face. He didn’t want his hands tied either.
On towards the wall to a place where a hole gaped between the hedge and the gate post. He hadn’t noticed it before. Twigs snapped and then a ripping sound as he was wrenched through.
The truck smelled of new leather, driver’s window open a crack and letting in a cold draft of air. The man pushed him over into the passenger seat from the driver’s side and locked the doors.
“Stay down!” he shouted, snapping on the seat belt.
There was something in his voice that sounded pained, like he’d sat on something sharp. Then he slammed the car door and ripped off the duct tape. Adam yelped. It hurt like hell.
The truck lurched down the road, engine rumbling and growling onto Riverfront Drive. In those few precious moments while his pulse throbbed and blood streamed through each limb, he remembered writing down the truck’s license plate on the back of a piece of paper. Only like an idiot, he’d left it in Wendover’s car. His mom would be home soon. She would know what to do.
He could see car lights on Coors through a thick veil of snow, see someone getting out of a car at the gas station. So close, but too far away to hear him. They were almost at the intersection before the man slammed on the brake. “Ho-lee crap!”
He let out a string of cuss words, something about a cyclist and a barking dog, and then he picked up speed after that.
Adam still felt the prickle of fear as he slumped in that seat, felt his throat go dry. “My dad… is he dead?”
The man lit a cigarette, took a deep breath and let out a jet of smoke. His head seemed to rock from side to side and he was grinning like a clown at the fair.