Desperate Measures Read online

  Desperate Measures

  By

  M Glenn Graves

  A Clancy Evans Novel

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2014 M Glenn Graves

  Wolfpack Publishing

  6032 Wheat Penny Avenue

  Las Vegas, NV 89122

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To Cindy, for her time and talents

  ISBN: 978-1-64119-228-6

  Table of Contents:

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  About the Author

  1

  The inexpensive surveillance camera was not state-of-the-art, but it did prove sufficient for the apartment. It was one of those do-it-yourself installation kits that produced a grainy black and white video. Motion activated. Twelve hour tape on a loop. Erased all previously recorded images in the new cycle. Economical. Efficient. Advertised as thwarting crimes at home. For the most part.

  The camera was aimed at the entrance to the apartment. The comings and goings of the two people who lived there were recorded and erased on the twelve hour cycle. Most of the recordings lasted only a few seconds and the duration of the tape was seldom more than an hour in any twelve hour cycle even when the two people had busy days. From the time of its installation, only the apartment occupants had watched one of the silent recordings. That singular viewing of three minutes duration was merely to ensure that the device was working properly. Each of the apartment dwellers had taken turns to walk outside and wave at the camera positioned above the doorway entrance. That three minute silent film was comical. Not funny, but silly and bordering on the ridiculous. A human activity. A woman is suddenly in view. She is smiling. She waves and then disappears. Some seconds later a man appears. He grins a little, then waves at the camera. He disappears. Had anyone besides the two apartment dwellers seen it, they might not have laughed. Comical, but not really funny.

  The notable exception was the recording being viewed now. That premier tape recording had been erased and replaced by one far less comical.

  The two men watching the silent recording were behind a table in a small room. One was sitting in an uncomfortable chair; the other man was leaning against the wall behind the man in the chair. There was no sound in the room as the two people watched the grainy production on the television screen directly in front of them. Black and white horror. There were no other furnishings in the claustrophobic space besides the table, two chairs, and the large two-way mirror installed behind the cart holding the television monitor and the small DVD player showing the film.

  Despite the poor resolution of the system, it was clear enough. The camera had been mounted in the right hand corner above the front door where only last year some wrens had built a nest. The video camera had been mounted to give the appearance that it was resting inside the abandoned bird’s nest. Now and then, when the shadows were right, the camera looked like a bird sitting in the nest watching whoever was coming and going. That is the way it might have appeared if one had bothered to notice that part of the door. The shadows had to be right for such an appearance.

  The tape being reviewed by the two men was a few minutes over eight hour’s duration. The whole episode had been filmed nonstop by the low-budget device. The episode and the aftermath. The aftermath had lasted longer than the event, of course, since there were many more people involved by that point. So much to do. So much to note. So much movement.

  The two men endured the silence and watched the episode but not the aftermath. The episode was quite sufficient. And the aftermath, for all of its gore and gall, was anticlimactic.

  The image of someone who appeared to be a young woman walked under the camera as if leaving the apartment. Then, quite unexpectedly, she turned and faced the camera without looking at it. There’s an object in her right hand. The object resembled a small gasoline container similar to what one might use for refueling small power equipment. The recording shows the woman pouring then splashing the liquid from the container onto herself. She continued to face the camera while she covered her body with whatever was in the can. She never did look directly into the eye of the camera.

  She dropped the container to the ground next to where she was standing. She dropped it without looking at it fall. Her eyes seemed fixated on something directly in front of her. Like a trance.

  Using her left hand, she took a small object out of her left-side pocket. She held it steady until it produced a flame. She touched the flame to her jacket and immediately she was engulfed in fire.

  One of the men gasped softly, but said nothing. The other man, more stoic, continued to be absorbed with the image of the burning human being still upright on the small screen resting on the small table in front of him.

  No sooner had the fire begun than the young woman on the screen took what appeared to be a small pistol from the right pocket of her jacket and raised the weapon to the level of her head. The handgun was in her right hand and aimed directly at her right temple when she fired the weapon. She fell to the ground immediately.

  The stoic jumped ever so slightly simultaneously with the flash from the silent gunshot despite the fact that this was the third time he had watched the tape. T
he other man, the one seated at the table, placed his head in the palms of his hands and moaned softly.

  The body continued to burn while the camera continued recording all of the aftermath in silence.

  2

  I was sitting in the pew next to my mother, Rachel Jo Evans, in the Clancyville Baptist Church. It wasn’t the last place you might expect to find me, but it was close to the bottom of the list.

  I was enduring the interminable sermon by making a mental list of other places I would rather be at this moment in my life. It was true that I had grown up in this very church until I wandered off to college. During those first four years of freedom, I had discovered that religion was a bit more than my Baptist heritage had allowed, supposed, or even taught. I meandered through some other persuasions, but nothing caught my attention until I took a course in the spring of my junior year. Actually, it was two courses that spring that sprung me. One course was an elective on Eastern world religions. Amazing and unusual stuff coming from that part of the world, I remember thinking back then. The other course was on criminal justice. It was amazing in its own right as well. On the surface it had nothing whatsoever to do with religion.

  The religion course was philosophical knowledge. Entertaining and uplifting. The justice course was practical knowledge. Beguiling and intoxicating. It was my second turning point to becoming a private detective.

  My mother nudged me. I turned slightly to look at her without fully turning my head. You never want to make sudden movements with entire portions of your body in a church worship. It catches the peripheral vision of folks who then turn to see why you had moved. Curiosity reigns in those kind of groups. Growing up in a Baptist church you learn to avoid the judgmental stares of parents and elders with subtle movements of the body. My brother Scott and I developed these techniques into art forms after years of being caught and chastised.

  “What?” I whispered softly to my mother after the nudge.

  “Pay attention,” she said.

  “To what?”

  “The preacher,” she said and pointed with her right index finger which was resting in her lap and aimed at the back of the pew directly in front of us, the pew that had served as a buffer between me and the nearly comatose preacher of record that day.

  “But he isn’t saying anything,” I said.

  “Shhhh,” she countered softly so as not to disturb anyone close by.

  I returned to my mental listing of pleasing places that would be more productive for me.

  Mercifully, if not pedantically, the preacher told us to close our eyes and bow our heads for the closing prayer. I had survived another onslaught by the forces of the seemingly good. I would live to see the light of day once more. I would dance the dance of sheer delight once outside the walls of sanctimony if only metaphorically. I was free.

  My mother and I walked towards her home after we had greeted some forty or more old friends that had watched me grow up and who had to comment once again on how much I had changed through the years. How tall. How lovely. How strong and independent. And how beautiful the red hair.

  “You might learn something if you would listen to the preacher,” Rachel Jo said.

  “Did you learn anything?”

  “I’m older.”

  “So he’s only talking to younger people, like me?”

  “He’s a good man, Clancy.”

  “I have no doubt … check that. I don’t know the man. In my experiences, preachers are like the rest of us – gypsies, tramps, murderers, and thieves in search of meaning to life. They hold no special place, except the ones who do their jobs and keep their noses clean.”

  “Most do.”

  “Many do not.”

  “But you can’t throw them all to the wolves,” Rachel said.

  “He can’t preach.”

  “He’s still learning.”

  “Didn’t he practice in seminary?”

  “Okay, so he’s not the best speaker we’ve ever had as a minister. He’s sincere.”

  “Tell me how you knew I wasn’t listening,” I said.

  “I’m your mother.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I know you. I read you. I understand you.”

  “Some times.”

  “Most times. Your mind was wandering.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “Your eyes were glossed over. You were lost in your own imagination. I watched you grow up.”

  “Have to work on that glossy stare,” I said.

  “You could just pay attention to what the preacher is saying. He was preaching from the Bible.”

  “The Bible is a lot more interesting than what he was saying. It would be better if he would just read from it and not share any of his own notions. That would be more interesting than that drivel he espoused for a sermon this morning.”

  “He’s a man of God and deserves your respect.”

  “I don’t disrespect him. I just don’t want to listen to him. Notice that his lips are moving but he isn’t saying anything,” I said.

  “Why did you come to church with me?”

  “Old habits. I grew up in that church. I know those people. They’re friends, teachers, and some family. I guess they are my people in some peculiar, Southern way. I can’t get rid of that.”

  “It sounds like you might want to get rid of it,” Rachel said.

  “Some days …,” I said.

  “You should find a church in Norfolk.”

  “I go to church … sometimes.”

  “I mean a Baptist church.”

  “You think it makes a difference to God?” I said.

  “It makes a difference to me.”

  “Well, mother, I don’t attend church because of you. And, by the way, I don’t stay away from church because of you either. I happen to like the Episcopal priest in Norfolk.”

  “She’s a woman.”

  “Well said. Me, too. And she’s a friend of mine. She preaches good sermons. She actually has something to say, you know, content-wise. I can actually listen to her without my eyes glossing over.”

  “I suppose that’s something. You seem so reticent to listen to anybody these days.”

  “I’ll take that as a concession on your part and try to ignore your insinuation.”

  “I’m not conceding anything. You know I worry about you.”

  “You worry about everything. I just happen to be on your long list.”

  “If you’d take better care of yourself, I wouldn’t have to worry so much.”

  “Look at me, Mother. I’m in excellent shape. I run, work out, eat right. Not overweight, reasonably attractive, have good manners, and I stay out of jail.”

  “Life is more than food and jogging and staying out of jail. The body more than clothing,” Rachel said.

  “Sounds like a bad quote from some place,” I said.

  “If I had done a better job of raising you, you would know the source of that. There’s a spiritual dimension to being human,” she said.

  “What can I say? My Baptist lineage has tainted the way I perceive religion and the habits of my religious culture.”

  “What on earth does that mean?” Rachel said.

  “It means that I am working out my own salvation with fear and trembling. Remember that one?”

  “I should know better than to debate important subjects like this with you.”

  I let her passive-aggressive jibe fall to the earth without further comment. Conversations like these with my mother should always be placed in the lose-lose column of my life experiences. Perhaps some day my mother might recognize the fact that I am a grown woman who has to make her own decisions. Perhaps, but unlikely.

  In the meantime, we were headed home to a hearty lunch that she had prepared for us.

  3

  My return trips to my hometown of Clancyville, Virginia were worth the verbal battering I often received from my mother. The woman could cook. Sunday dinner, as we in the South are want to refer to th
e midday meal on the first day of the week, was more often than not an exquisite delight to both eye and palate. On this trip I had failed to bring my friend Rosey along, so her culinary magic was not likely to manifest itself at the level I had experienced in recent years when he had joined my investigations. This trip had nothing to do with any investigation, so Rosey’s presence was not essential. He was back from his Eastern European escapade courtesy of the Feds, but was spending most of his hours asleep recovering from work overload. Think hibernation. He would be hungry once he emerged from his Sterling cave just outside of D.C. For the present time, sleep was his chief priority. Mine was avoiding bad sermons and hoping for great food.

  On the other hand, it could be that my negative appraisal of my mother’s latest Baptist minister had done me in. At least that was what I had thought when I had questioned her yesterday evening regarding the menu for Sunday lunch. She had muttered something about leftovers.

  However, when we entered the kitchen where our family table sat as a reminder of our food and fellowship until my father was killed when I was eleven, I was pleased to find that it was covered with the delights of her masterful Southern style – some early corn on the cob, green beans, field peas, slightly cooked carrots, roast beef and gravy, mashed potatoes, slaw, and fruit salad. I could smell the aroma of biscuits cooking in the oven. The young black woman – in her forties – was humming that spiritual about being a motherless child as we entered the back door. Her name was Ginny Mae and Rachel had hired her back in the early spring just to help around the house with some chores.

  I could fuss about my mother on many fronts. I could get agitated with her at the drop of a hat. She could incite me to anger quicker than any villain I was pursuing. But I could not fault my mother for her kindnesses to people in and around Clancyville. Ginny Mae was the oldest daughter of Bertha Mae Jones of Clancyville. Bertha Jones was the youngest sister of Sarah Jones, also of Clancyville, who had worked for my mother and father since before I was born. I say worked for when it was more like two friends sharing the work load around the house than it was employer and employee between Rachel and Sarah. Bertha Mae and Sarah had married the two Jones brothers, hence the same last name.