The Thrill of the Chase (Mystery & Adventure)
Read The Thrill of the Chase (Mystery & Adventure) Online
Authors: Jack Parker
AMAZON KINDLE EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY :
Jack Parker
Also by the Author :
Perfect Crime ( Mystery & Adventure )
The Apocalypse
Something Blue
Copyright
Copyright © 2012 by Jack Parker
Cover and internal design © 2012 by Jack Parker
The Thrill of the Chase
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be used or reproduced, in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locations is entirely coincidental.
« Stories are true to our common experience; they are statements which concern the human condition... Stories are not subject to the imposition of such questions as true or false, fact or fiction. Stories are realities lived and believed. They are true »
- N. Scott Momaday,
The Native Voice
-
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Contents
Chapter One
Monday, November 29th, 1993
Swedesboro, New Jersey
It was snowing.
The space between earth and sky was full of ice, a maelstrom hanging in limbo. The blizzard had been growing continually worse with the passing hours, showing no signs of letting up – much less stopping. As a matter of fact, the storm had begun the previous night as little more than gentle flurries; it had grown in intensity as it continued into late afternoon the following day.
The houses lining Crescent Street, which was actually a perfectly straight block, contrary to what the name suggested, appeared to have been taken straight out of an oil–on–canvas depiction of Christmas Eve. They must have been warm and cozy inside to look so homey, like gingerbread houses thrust up out of sugar snow.
Yet, beyond these romantics, one quality of the evening pronounced itself with equal fervency: the cold. The biting, freezing cold. The unstoppable, penetrating, biting, freezing cold. The unstoppable, penetrating, freezing, biting, chilling, relentless cold. The terrible, bone–gnawing cold of winter.
I freely confess I've always been a complainer, and I've never harbored much love for winter. I suppose I should have been used to such weather, having lived in Jersey practically my entire life, but there you have it. During my lifetime I've been called a lot of things, but never a "fast learner".
So there I was, and that's where I begin: outside my office on the corner of Union and Crescent, shoveling the snow off my walkway, longing for summer. Of course, in summer I'd have to mow the grass, and that wasn't much fun either. Autumn meant raking, because the neighboring houses were bordered by oak trees, and spring would just mean
more
mowing. You just can't win when you're lazy, and I suppose that's been one of my greatest vices.
It was my sincerest desire to abandon my task and hurry over to one of those little cottages and thaw out by the fire. I longed for a cup of coffee or some hot chocolate, if only to drive out the ice that had surely taken up residence in my belly. I swore under my breath as I stubbed my toe on the uneven sidewalk. The pavement was hidden beneath nearly a foot and a half of snow, and my boots were old and worn through in several places. Needless to say, my feet were soaked, and I couldn't feel my toes at all.
Did I still
have
toes?
God, it's cold,
I thought furiously, as though blaming the Almighty would make Him rescind the storm.
Due to the weather, there was a minimum of traffic on the road. The roads were steadily becoming impassable, a fact pronounced by the frequent sound of revving engines and the squeal of tires on ice. The occasional passing vehicle was evidenced only by its headlights, visible only as indistinct yellow orbs through the curtains of falling snow.
Across the street, two young boys where having the time of their lives, packing snowballs and hurling them at each other mercilessly. A big black dog barked loudly as he chased them back and forth around the yard, wagging his tail happily. His booming barks echoed in the still evening air.
I rubbed my gloved hands together vigorously, and then slapped my face and nose to restore at least a trace of circulation. That was easier said than done, of course, so I gave up almost immediately and hefted the shovel. The blade scraped as it met resistance on the hidden sidewalk, a sound I hated almost as much as I hated the cold. But by now, I had hit that point of optimism (or maybe apathy) that comes near the completion of a difficult task, and – quite honestly – I no longer gave a shit. Once I had cleared some vague semblance of a path, I could go inside and watch it fill again.
I really needed to get a TV in the office.
It was at that moment, when I was less than four feet from the main sidewalk that I made the mistake of glancing back at my handiwork. Immediately, I felt my heart sink, not necessarily with disappointment, but there was definitely a sense of loss there. It was like losing an old friend.
The path over which I'd agonized was already filling with snow, fast enough that by the time I "finished", the walkway behind me would have disappeared again.
Before I could even begin swearing, divinity intervened, and the front door to my office burst open. Artificial golden light spilled forth over the snowy front yard, and a lone figure stood framed in the doorway, her body silhouetted by the light within the office.
"Mr. Stikup!" The voice was like a shot in the stillness – a rifle crack, but warmer and much more pleasant. "You've been out here for an hour! Come inside before you get sick."
Yes, ma'am,
I thought, shouldering the shovel and wading back through the snow toward the front door. It didn't really matter that no one could get up the front walk. It wasn't like I'd be doing any business any time soon. Especially not at this time of year.
After propping the shovel against the side of the building, I stamped the snow off my boots and stepped into the warmth of the office, closing the door against the cold. Jill Fereday was instantly there, helping me pull off my snow–stained overcoat. She hung it on the coat rack and then bent over to help me take off my soaked boots.
I laughed as I kicked them free and stamped my bare feet on the wood floor to restore circulation. "I don't pay you to be a butler, y'know."
"Huh, that's funny," Jill said, pausing to consider. "You don't pay me much for being a secretary either."
"Touché," I returned. "You don't have to do this all. Seriously."
She filled my eyes with a sweet smile, veiling mockery. "I know – I'm just looking for a raise."
More sarcasm. Was it sarcasm?
She unwound the red scarf from around my neck, literally cutting off any reply I might have made. "I'll go make some coffee," she announced, draping the scarf overtop of the coat and kicking the dripping boots up against the wall.
"Don't you want a tip?" I called after her as she headed down the hall to her office space.
"Are you offering?" she asked over her shoulder as she disappeared through the first door on the right. "Didn't know you carried spare change."
"I just don't have any ones," I shot back, still standing in the doorway. "I know you collect those at your
other
job."
"Oh, don't worry about that," she called, and I could tell she was smiling. "I'm still loaded up with what you gave me last night."
The comeback was on my tongue, and then… It wasn't.
"Dammit," I said, and then she was laughing for real.
Despite our close relationship, Jill didn't have any nicknames for me. My name is indeed Stikup.
Chance
Stikup, as a matter of fact. Like that dog from that book. And yes, it is pronounced "stick–up". It was sort of an oxymoron (or an irony, whichever it is; who the hell really cares?) with which I amused myself whenever I got bored: a detective involved in a heist?
Never.
God forbid.
At any rate, I'd always considered "Stikup" a fairly suitable name for a fairly decent private eye, and that was indeed my profession. Obviously, I would prefer to go by gallant or daring, but that would just be presumptuous and fantastical. Stikup suited me fine. At least, it would have to until my dear mother – bless her heart – passed away. Then I could change it without hurting her feelings.