No Longer Safe and Other Dark Stories E-Book

Jake Wilhelm

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

No Longer Safe

'No Longer Safe' is a collection of short stories that are gauranteed to not brighten your day!

'Sneaker Wave' features a lawmaa finding out just how dedicated he is to his job while pursuing a child killer - as a child's life hangs in the balance.

Our anchor story 'No Longer Safe' is about a man trying to get along after the end of the world - until he is faced with a harsh choice.

'Brave Boots' is about a cop trying to get away with murder.

'Old Man LeBlanc' is a man killed for his cache of guns. Long after they served time for the murder, the killers have forgotten where they buried the body, and it's tormenting them.

'The Peanut Boy' might brighten your day just a tad - it's a simple story about a coward contemplating revenge aganst the guy who stole his woman.

Our last story, 'The Armored Car' finds two policemen, a crashed armored car loaded with money and no witnesses. What do you think happens next?

Leseprobe

Jake Wilhelm

No Longer Safe and Other Dark Stories

BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

FRONT MATTER

NO LONGER SAFE

and other dark stories

by Jake Wilhelm

This book is dedicated to my father, for his inspiration and support

FOREWARD

Have you ever faced the toughest choice of your life, been close enough to stare it face to face, wondering what to do next, if it's even safe to proceed?

What happened when you went ahead and did it?

The stories in 'No Longer Safe' find a handful of characters on the edge of making a life changing (or life ending) choice and they must figure it out quickly – do this difficult thing, or ignore it and travel on to see what the rest of an innocent life entails.

'Sneaker Wave' leads the tales in this book. A lawman needs to discover just how devoted he is to his job while pursuing an armed child killer. At stake is the life of an innocent boy.

Our anchor story, 'No Longer Safe'. features a gentleman trying to get along after the end of the world when he's faced with a harsh choice.

In 'Brave Boots', watch as we try to figure out how long a cop can get away with murder. At least one character would like it to be forever.

'Old Man LeBlanc' was an old man killed for his hoard of guns. His killers forgot where they buried him, and this little fact is tormenting them. Will our hero help his friend find the body, or will he chicken out so he can live life as normal and safe as possible?

Next up is 'The Peanut Boy'. It's a tale about a coward seeking revenge on the man who stole his woman. He needs to attack and attack soon. Let's just hope it's not too much of a mess for everyone involved!

The book in your hands concludes with 'The Armored Car.' Two cops happen across a crashed armored car complete with money spilling out the back and no witnesses. What do you expect to happen?

Enjoy these stories!

SNEAKER WAVE

SNEAKER WAVE

The radio warned of sneaker waves when Weber left his house. A typhoon off Japan was going to cause wild water activity off the Oregon Coast, all are advised to stay off the beaches, the ocean may look peaceful one second, then a large wave you can't outrun pounds to the beach and rips away the ones you love.

Of course, it reminded him of Darla. Everything reminded him of Darla. The way his door shut on a dark, still house. The way the door opened on a dark, still house. The way he sat on a stool at the diner, alone amongst many. The way he drove a patrol car decade after decade, down the same quiet roads lined with dull houses and gray trees.

Tell me I’m the best thing that ever happened to you.

You are, Mack Weber, you are.

If he hadn’t been the best thing in her life, she could have had it all. She’d be a grandmother now, Weber thought as he slid behind the wheel of the patrol car. She would have been an excellent grandmother. A groovy old chick, the way she would have put it, amused dimple on each rose colored cheek.

“Weber, reporting on shift,” Weber muttered into the radio. “Don’t tell me about the sneaker wave advisory, I already heard. Gotta tell anyone, tell them off the air.”

“Sure, Chief,” crackled the radio. Weber turned the volume down. As he started the engine, he heard softly, “We got a report on that Luis Ray Butler. Charlie down at the theater just left here, he said he saw him up in Mantaya Cove.”

Weber stared out the windshield. Gray clouds brewed on the horizon. He never looked at the ocean, not after what it did to him and what he did to Darla, but he knew storm clouds when he saw them. The blue skies would be gray within the hour, so long blue skies.

He thumbed the mike. “Everyone’s been seeing that pervert all over the state. What makes this any different?”

“Charlie seemed like he knew what he was talking about. He says he, I mean Charlie, pulled a rifle on the fellow and told him to stay right there and he ran. Charlie chased him, but you know how his gout is, acted up on him. Thing is, he says he heard a child yell out. Now, he’s not too sure, you know his ears and all but-"

What would happen if he followed up on the report? Would he find a city-bred hiker and his youngster scared bejiggerless by a trigger happy old geezer, or would he find Luis Ray Butler?

Butler had left prison via illegal means last week, and every man woman and child with a badge were looking for the child killer. Weber heard there was a pool going, and if you bet that Butler would make it back to prison alive, you had a lot to learn about gambling.

Weber realized he had stopped breathing.

He didn’t want to face Luis Ray Butler.

“Chief, you there?”

Weber flicked on his overhead lights and, with the car still in Park, pressed the gas pedal to the floor.

“Didn’t catch that last part,” Weber yelled. “I see a car out on the highway goin’ mighty fast, gotta see if I can catch him up. You send Frank out on that report, better send Gary, too. Separate cars. Call in the State, have them rendezvous at Mantaya Cove. Call me if you need me, otherwise let me be.”

“Got it, 10-4.”

Weber rolled his foot off the pedal. He leaned over, rested his chin on the steering wheel. He wondered why he was so afraid of death. This wasn’t the first time he had turned tail to danger, and he knew it wouldn’t be his last. He wondered why he was so afraid. Why he was so careful to keep breathing after what he had done to Darla?

“Oh, Darla,” he muttered and put the cruiser in Drive.

He pulled onto the highway. His was the only house for a mile and half either direction, the way they thought they would like it. A sweet little home away from patrol, a little farm, some goats maybe some cows. Ducks, Darla liked ducks. She begged him to paint the house yellow with white trim. He bought the paint that day. He was going to take her to the back porch, show her the paint and ask her to marry him, or he wouldn’t paint the house. When he was loading the paint into the truck, he had realized the lack of romanticism in the entire idea. He had opted to class up the whole affair. Instead of paint, pain.

The road swept from the trees and into the dunes. Windswept sand on either side of the road; spindly grass, bushes and finally trees beyond on the side of the road Weber preferred to study. Weber took a deep breath. Soon enough, safety would vanish as the road swept out over the ocean.

He spotted the thin trail of smoke just before reaching the first ocean view pull out. His eyes were not very good, the smoke should have been invisible, but there it was, barely seen through the trees. Weber slowed the cruiser. Camper, no doubt unaware it was illegal to have a cozy campfire in the national forest. Someone needed to have a talk with that said someone, and no one else was around.

Weber shrugged. It appeared he would be too busy to help hunt for Luis Ray Butler.

“Ain't that a shame,” he grunted and parked the car on the ocean view pull out. Wind shook the cruiser. His heart hammered. The storm was far off yet, but the water had turned gray, gray as death.

Worse, he was parked by the sign. Most of the sign was benign, cautions about certain things like stealing driftwood, and oh by the way, no campfires. But there, as if the state felt a requirement to run salt in his wounds, and maybe they did, the warning about sneaker waves.

Sneaker waves. Good name. They sneak up on you-

Tell me I’m the best thing

propelled by the storm gods, a sudden extra surge that explodes past the waterline, crashing, grabbing whatever is in its path dragging kicking and screaming and finally whining into the riptide never to be seen again -

Tell me I’m the best thing

But I’m not, I'm poison

The best in her life should’ve been Fred Lagues. He might have beaten her more than a bunch of times, but she would be alive.

You are the best thing…

Then marry me.

On bended knee in the sand, the ocean idling off shore, gray skies chasing the blue but he didn’t need sunlight to see the color in his life because she was smiling, she would take the ring and say yes and he would be the luckiest man in the world.

Then she was gone. The roar of a wave, the startled laugh, then the scream because she was gone, racing out to sea grabbing for purchase against laughing waves, screaming, screaming, screaming, whining

Weber buttoned his coat against the breeze and headed into the trees, soundtrack of crashing waves cutting out suddenly as he put the trees behind him and the gray of death. Weber stopped when he realized he hadn’t called his side trip in to dispatch. He shrugged and went on. This was a simple call. The type he liked. The tourist or tourists would be polite once they got over the Fuzz popping in on their scene, they’d toss water on the fire and then want to shoot the breeze. He had made pals on calls like this, folks that called on him every year and thought he liked them as much as they liked him.

He smelled the smoke now, with it the scent of crackling meat. Maybe he’d get a meal out of this. He wasn’t hungry, but he could take something with him and save a stop at the café later where he had to smile while people talked to him.

The smoke guided him to a grove of fir trees. It was odd, Weber thought. Most fires were built in a clearing so the smoke would rise. This little example of Prometheus’s magic was filtering through the trees because it was under the trees itself. Not the best way to keep lungs and the forest clean.

The smoke cleared for a second. Weber saw a small boy sitting on a log. OK. Good thing he came along. If Luis Ray Butler was indeed in these woods, he wouldn’t only be dodging The Man, he’d be on the prowl for his most favoritest type of victim. Animals like him didn’t stop what they were doing. He was like the ocean, chewing meat without remorse. A family wouldn’t stop him. Hadn’t he killed three people to get that boy in Arizona? Or was that one in Colorado? Either way, Weber would have a new friend that thanked him so much for saving his or her little boy’s life. Not a bad day on the old beat.

“Hello,” he said, stepping from the background.

He did this in time to see the boy wasn’t merely sitting on the log. No, he was really getting the job done. A rope around his chest had been double looped around a branch stub and cinched tight. The boy might have screamed a warning or ‘help me’, but the gag stuffed in his mouth prevented that.

Weber did two things. Strangely, the first thing was a reminder to see the eye doctor. The next was to rip his gun from the holster and scream, “Freeze!” although he only saw the boy.

He heard a snap in the trees. Weber groaned. Being around these woods all his life, he knew that was the sound of a person running, and judging by the meager volume of that continued racket, the person had one hell of a lead on him.

Then again...

It beat facing Luis Ray Butler well, face to face. Let someone else catch him. Get to the car, get that radio working, this whole speck of the county would be sealed tight in fifteen minutes and every inch of forest, beach, dune and raggedy little shed would be gone over within the hour.

And, as a bonus, he had saved Butler’s latest victim.

“Are you OK, boy?’ he asked, running to the child. “Did he hurt you any?”

The boy nodded.

Should have shot the son of a bitch, should have shot him – hurt another little boy, should have shot him -

Weber untied the boy. Did it without thinking, he only realized the boy was sobbing when he pulled the boy’s arm back way too far in order to clear the rope. “Sorry,” he gasped, patting the little boy’s head. He eased loose the gag and held the boy to his chest. The little guy wept.

Weber set the boy back on the log and said, “How bad hurt are you?”

The little boy sniffed bravely and said, “He hurt my leg when he dragged me away.”

Weber opened his mouth a tad. “Did he hurt you in any other way?”

“He tied me up. Why did he do that? What did I do wrong?”

Weber wiped the boy’s nose with his coat sleeve. The pervert hadn’t gotten at him. Praise the Lord for that. “You did nothing wrong. You’re OK now. Come with me.”

Weber kicked dirt over the fire, stomach grumbling as a spit with meat on it tumbled into the ashes. Once he was sure the fire was out, he hoisted the small boy in his arms and marched back through the forest. “My car is nearby,” he said. “We’ll get you outta here pretty lickety-split.”

The boy nestled his head into Weber’s shoulder, a steady sad keening sound whispering from pale lips into Weber’s ear. “It’s OK,” Weber repeated again and again.

He had finally done something good. Yeah. Could’ve gotten the killer, too - but when it comes down to it, he did the important part. He saved an innocent child.

Weber saw patches of the road through the trees now, see the ocean, waves frothing against the beach, that storm was freight training in. He stepped through the trees, by now the boy had worked his head inside the jacket and wasn’t making that whining noise. Weber came through the trees in time to see Luis Ray Butler getting behind the wheel of the patrol car.

As Butler reached around the steering column, Weber patted one pocket, then the next, then his jacket pockets.

“Goddammit!” Weber snapped. “Son of a bitch!”

“You said bad words,” noted the boy.

Butler grinned. As he turned the keys a certain dumbass had left in the ignition, the killer looked up. The grin froze as he saw he wasn’t alone.

“You stop!” Weber screamed. He set the boy (almost dropped him, matter of fact) on the road and ran towards the car.

Butler tossed the car in gear. Tires spun in sand. The sedan slid onto the road, engine snapping. Weber started to get out of the way. Then, mouth set so hard his teeth clacked, he pulled his .45 and blasted two shots at the onrushing car. Since he was aiming at the steering wheel, he was surprised to see one shot shear off the hood ornament and the second round pound through the passenger side of the windshield. Glass must have sprayed Butler, because suddenly he was reaching at his face. Took too long in doing so. As the windshield crackled and snapped in protest to its wound, the cruiser slid off the road.

The car drove into a berm and spun several times before almost flipping on its side. Engine snarling, glass still cracking, the car stood at sharp angle to the road, passenger side mirror touching asphalt. Tires spun as Butler attempted to get the car level and outta here again.

Not for long. The driver’s door popped open, Butlers’ arms grew on the car roof. Weber fired once at the hands, but Butler was too fast. He was up and out of the car, the door slapping shut. Weber saw Butler’s shadow near the back of the car, then nothing.

“Give it up!” Weber yelled.

No answer. Weber ran to the front of the car, looked around fast.

No Butler.

Where was he?

Weber groaned. He should have let the son of a bitch leave. Now, he and the boy were really in danger. The pervert could be anywhere.

“Dammit!” Weber snarled.

“Chief,” the police radio whispered, “We’re onto something with Luis Ray Butler, sir. Some folks camping on the Ridge say their little boy wandered away from camp earlier today, just about the time Charlie says he saw Butler. It’s gotta be! Everyone’s coming in from everywhere. Chief, you hear me?”

That meant back up was an unlucky 13 miles away in the wrong direction. If he and the boy could hang on long enough before Butler found them…

Weber kicked in the windshield. The heater vents blew on his hands as he reached for the radio. In the collision, the mike handle had dropped against the passenger door panel, didn’t know the cord was that long – Weber stooped, reaching for the mike, groaning. He could see the radio dangling from the dash, and just as easily see the torn place where the mike cord met the radio. Either Butler had gotten twisted in the cord during the wreck and pulled it loose or had sabotaged the radio on his way out the door.

Swell.

Weber made another discovery.

The shotgun rack was empty.

On cue, the shotgun roared from the dunes, shot spraying the hood, a few pieces tearing through Weber’s jacket. Weber snapped upright as he slid off the car, spotted Butler in time to see the killer heading for the ocean at top speed, stopping only once to pop off another round.

“Are you OK?”

Weber turned the small voice. The boy stood about two feet away.

“You shoulda stayed by the road!” Weber regretted the outburst a half second before the kid start crying again. He patted the boy on the back and said, “You crawl into the car here.”

He lifted the boy. It was time to put him in the back, where the cage would protect him. He opened the back door and lowered him through the opening, bent over as far as he could to get the boy in before gently dropping him. Weber started to come in behind the boy.

And stopped.

He couldn’t let Butler run around loose. Do that and he’d come back with the shotgun at the ready and quite ready to finish what he started with the boy. Meeting the boy’s round eyes, Weber knew he had to track Butler down. Keep him away from the car. There was a chance he could do that.

“You’ll be safe in here. There’s a cage, see? No one will hurt you now, no one will ever hurt you again and you’ll be OK. Always. I promise." Weber stopped losing his grip on his words. The boy nodded, and Weber carefully closed the door.

He returned to the road, eying spent gray shot laying on the pavement and knew that he had no chance of capturing Butler thanks to fact he kept the shotgun loaded with all four shells, plus four more clipped to the side.

But he needed to try.

“You stay in this car no matter what,” Weber said, leaning in through the windshield. “Someone will come along soon enough. You just curl up in a little ball in this car and don’t make a sound unless you know it’s not that bad man.”

Weber toggled the switches for the siren and lights. He blinked against the bright red and blues and said, “Someone will see these lights and come and save you.”

“You’ll be back, right?”

Weber nodded. “We’ll both be waiting for help together in just a bit.” His parents would do more than offer him a meal. They'd probably adopt him!

“OK. Thank you.”