In The Bleak Midwinter: A Special Agent Constance Mandalay Novel (41 page)

She strolled slowly past the drink coolers,
inspecting the selections, and then paused. She still had a little
over three hours left before she would roll into Saint Louis.
Although she’d slept well last night, she still didn’t feel like
she was caught up, so she was definitely going to need caffeine to
get her through the upcoming stretch of highway. After a brief
moment of indecision, she settled on a bottle of green tea that was
boasting “all natural” on the label. She didn’t fully buy into the
advertising by any stretch, but she figured her body would
appreciate green tea more than a soda, or even coffee.

After paying for the drink, she headed back
out to the first row of pumps. Since she had left her coat on the
passenger seat of her car, she hurried—heels again tapping out a
sharp cadence, this time against the grimy, salt-frosted pavement.
She had already topped off her tank and paid with her card before
seeking out the restroom, so she quickly unlocked the door and
climbed into the driver’s seat, then settled the bottle of tea into
the console cup holder. As she reached over her shoulder for the
safety belt, she heard a warbling chime issue from her side.

Abandoning the belt, she reached into her
jacket pocket and retrieved her cell. The screen displayed,
UNKNOWN, and for the number, a row of ten zeros, separated by
strategically placed dashes. She frowned and consciously creased
her brow, wondering at the odd data and whether to even bother
answering. After a moment, the device ceased to jiggle, and the
vibrato tone stopped. Problem solved.

Constance moved to slide it back into her
pocket when it suddenly began to tickle her palm and sing the same
generic tune to her again. She pulled it back up and found the same
message on the screen. Giving in, she thumbed the answer button and
tucked the cell up beneath her hair and against her ear while she
used her other hand to fish her sunglasses from the visor.

“Hello?”

An unfamiliar woman’s emotionless and curt
voice asked, “SA Mandalay?”

Constance frowned again. “Yes, this is SA
Mandalay. Who is this?”

“Please hold,” the woman replied.

A dull silence instantly filled the earpiece.
Constance let out a displeased harrumph but continued to wait.
Several seconds later, there was a click and a new voice came on
the line.

“SA Mandalay…” a calm, almost soothing male
voice said. “I trust you are doing well today?”

Now she wasn’t just displeased, she was
confused and starting to edge toward somewhat angry.

“Who is this?” Constance demanded, not
bothering to hide the irritation in her voice.

There was a quiet chuckle at the other end.
“Forgive me, I suppose I should have introduced myself first. I’m
Assistant Director Jack Graham.”

Constance fell mute, the earlier aggravation
now turning into a bewildering sort of alarm. She knew the name
wasn’t likely to be a coincidence, not after everything she’d just
been through.

After what seemed to be a forever period of
silence she managed, “Good afternoon, sir…”

“Good afternoon, SA Mandalay,” he replied. He
was, in a sense, restarting the conversation from square one.

“What can I do for you, sir?” she asked.

“I’m simply checking in with you,” he told
her. “I know that you were just assigned to a rather difficult case
at my direction, and I wanted to make sure you came through it
okay.”

“So far,” she replied, still stunned. “Thank
you for the concern, sir.”

“That’s good to hear,” he replied. “You
should take some leave when you get home. A few days for yourself
to rest up. Perhaps spend a belated holiday with your significant
other, Detective Storm.”

The comment was as subtle as a hammer, but
she willed herself not to flinch, verbally at least. Instead, she
replied, “I still need to file my report, sir.”

“The report can wait, SA Mandalay.”

“But–”

“Trust me,” he said, cutting her off, “your
report can wait. I insist you take a few days for yourself. I’ll be
calling your supervisor with the authorization. After what you’ve
seen, you deserve it.”

Obviously she was being left no other choice.
She just wasn’t entirely sure why. Therefore, she said the only
thing she could: “Thank you…”

“You’re very welcome,” he replied. “Besides,
I’m sure you could use a little time to think about what you plan
to include in your report.”

“Sir?”

“You came into possession of somewhat
sensitive information during this case…” he said, allowing a verbal
sword to dangle above her head.

“Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! I never should
have dragged Ben into this”
she thought to herself.
“God,
what if they come down on him for this too…”

Apparently her pause was long enough to evoke
another quiet chuckle from AD Graham. “Relax. Who do you think sent
you that file and text message, SA Mandalay?”

She realized that she had been holding her
breath and now allowed herself to exhale slowly then take in a
fresh lungful of air.

“May I ask why, sir?”

“To help you understand,” he replied.

“I’m still not certain that I do.”

“Hence your need for some time to think.”

Constance waited a heartbeat then asked,
“What are you wanting me to put in my report, sir?”

“What do you think you should put into the
report?” he asked.

“No disrepect intended, sir, but it seems to
me the bureau has been hiding something for thirty-five years.”

“What do you think that might be, SA
Mandalay?”

“I’m not entirely sure, sir. However, I can’t
help but wonder if everyone in that town is involved.”

“They are, Special Agent, but not in the way
you imagine.”

“Sir?”

“There is no conspiracy among the people of
Hulis. You can trust me on that.”

“Then that only leaves…”

He filled in her pause. “As I said, you need
to think about it.”

“If that is the case, why didn’t you send
Rowan Gant with me? The paranormal is his forte.”

“I have my reasons, SA Mandalay.”

The tone of his voice told Constance that any
further questions were unwelcome at this time. She hedged her bet
and replied, “Yes, sir.”

“By the way…” Graham added, “it might help
you to understand if I tell you that Joseph Wayne Garrity was
missing from his cell early yesterday morning. Vanished without a
trace.”

“Joseph Wayne Garrity, sir?”

“Check the file, SA Mandalay,” he replied. “I
look forward to seeing your report once you’ve had a little time to
recuperate.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

Without further comment or even a farewell,
the call ended. Constance pulled the cell phone away from her ear
and stared at it for a moment. Finally, she snapped it shut,
stuffed it into her pocket, then hit the trunk release and climbed
out into the chilly wind. Her laptop case was nestled in between
her suitcase and gear bag, so it didn’t take much to dig it
out.

Back inside the car she pulled the notebook
computer out and flipped open the clamshell, simultaneously
slipping a thumb in between to press the power button. Once it had
booted, she sent her finger dancing across the touchpad and brought
the mysterious emailed file up on the screen.

Constance began paging through the rap sheets
she had already studied for hours, but then with far less sleep
under her belt. Still, even then it hadn’t escaped her notice that
Detective Sergeant Addison Carmichael was listed as the arresting
officer on each of the reports. What she hadn’t noticed before was
that some of the sheets had been tagged as “missing.” A gut feeling
told Constance that she didn’t even need to count. The tagged
predators in the file would add up to seven. That same feeling also
told her she knew exactly where they each had gone.

After sifting through the pages, she
eventually found Joseph Wayne Garrity. He was supposed to be
serving seven to twenty-five for repeatedly molesting a
nine-year-old girl in a Kansas City suburb.

Until yesterday morning, that is.

Apparently Merrie Frances Callahan had
amended his sentence.

EPILOGUE

ON
the remainder of the drive home,
Greg Lake’s voice filled the interior of Constance’s sedan as he
lamented the broken promises of Christmas and a man in a red suit
who was not what he seemed. Whenever the song would reach its end,
she focused on the last line, which so eloquently claimed that the
Christmas we get is the one that we deserve. The rap sheets of the
eight dead predators would flash through her mind, and in that
moment she would believe the words to be true.

Then she would thumb the controls on the
steering column and skip the CD backwards to start the tune again
from the beginning. Now and again, as the song echoed in her ears,
she would splay out her hand atop the steering wheel and look at
the fresh lacquer of pearlescent pink polish on her nails, then
smile.

Unfortunately, her smile would soon fade. She
would flash on the dozens of rap sheets in the file for child
molesters who were still alive, and realize that for Merrie—and
Rebecca—Christmas would forever be Hell.

Then her vision would begin to blur as tears
welled in her eyes.

AD Graham was correct. She was definitely
going to need a few days…

Since people tend to not read the disclaimer
on the copyright page, I’ll say it here: Hulis, Missouri does
not
exist. I’m pretty certain I cannot be any clearer than
that.

Hulis—and Mais for that matter—are fictional
towns, populated by fictional characters, all spawned by my warped
imagination. If you go hunting for either of them on a map, you
won’t find them. Not in Missouri, anyway. I haven’t checked
elsewhere.

Granted, you’ll probably find the highways
that are mentioned, but you won’t find those two towns. If you do,
don’t tell me because then I would feel compelled to go there for a
visit and that could be all kinds of dangerous.

Also, while you might notice a landmark or
two that seem oddly familiar, be aware that I have rearranged a few
things to suit my fictional world, with fictional characters, in a
fictional situation. That’s how it goes with fiction.
It’s sort
of a fiction thing…

You will also notice that a portion of this
novel reads word for word like a novella titled
Merrie Axemas: A
Killer Holiday Tale.
Why? Because
In The Bleak Midwinter
is based upon that particular story. Please note, I just said
based upon,
not
exactly like
. Since I wrote the
novella, I’m allowed to muck about with it with impunity.

What that means is that while this novel
contains portions of text taken directly from the original novella,
you will find massive additions, minor subtractions, a host of
changes, and a vastly different ending.
That’s sort of a novel
thing…

Lastly…
Constance Mandalay
is, of
course, a character from the
Rowan Gant Investigations
, as
is
Detective Benjamin Storm
. The characters
Addison
“Skip” Carmichael
,
Harry Broderick
, and
Melanie
Slozar
are an homage (in name) to a 70’s era movie and TV show
called
Salvage
. The characters
Ruth
and
Elvis
Babbs
are named for and loosely based upon my maternal
grandparents,
Ruth
and
Elvis Babb
—no S. (The S is
another story entirely.) If you happen to hail from my hometown of
Fulton, Kentucky, you will recognize some of the landmarks in
Hulis, and maybe even another character name or two. That would be
because I used my knowledge of “home” (from the 70’s) to create the
fictional town. Oh, and Double D’s Pizza is real. It is in South
Saint Louis County. Go there, eat pizza, drink beer, and tell them
M. R. Sellars sent you. Trust me, they won’t kick you out for
that…

Sellars and his younger sister with
Department Store Santa, 1966

A member of the
International
Thriller Writers
,
M. R. Sellars is a
relatively unassuming homebody who “tells pretty lies” for a
living. Legend has it he started making up stories to entertain a
stuffed bear during his single digit years, then began writing them
down sometime around his early teens when the growing catalogue of
fiction started causing headaches. In May 2000, his first
full-length novel,
HARM NONE: A Rowan Gant Investigation
was
released, officially launching the acclaimed paranormal thriller
series.