Coldwater Revenge by James Ross (best e reader for android .txt) 📕

was confident that everything would be all right if he just didn’t panic. Inside the sleeping bag, his hands methodically removed a coat that was not really there, kicked off a pair of heavy boots that were not there either and lastly slipped-off the trousers that were. Then, as his face turned to find the wall of white where memory told him a patch of brighter white would guide him to a hole he must find and climb through if he were to survive, he abruptly ceased to remember, or to think at all. Because this time, Billy Pearce was dead.

CHAPTER 2

“Sir, you’ll have to turn that off until we land.”

“Sorry,” said Tom, dropping the Blackberry into his jacket pocket, “force of habit.” From habit as well, he shut his eyes while the turbo prop made its descent to the Coldwater County Airport, keeping them shut until wheel touched tarmac and held straight. Fifteen years of first class business travel hadn’t diluted the formative memories of white knuckle landings on this pocked strip of macadam. Laid crossways to the wind that swept east from Coldwater Lake and surrounded by acres of succulent field corn, the seasonal challenges of fog and ice were minor compared to the obstacle course of white tail deer that guarded the sweet grass along the cracked tarmac as though it were a field of Bambi heroin.

He grabbed the vibrating Blackberry as soon as the plane came to a stop. “Tom Morgan.”

“Stu Bailey,” said the voice on the other end. “Do you know your phone’s been off for the last hour?”

“It’s called vacation, Stu. What can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry, Tom, but I need to follow-up on your response to the conflict of interest questionnaire you filled out before you left.”

What could be ambiguous about a one word answer? “Too verbose?” he asked.

The voice on the other end forced a chuckle. “That depends. Are you sure you haven’t handled anything for Eurocon in the last ten years?”

“Yep.”

“Or any of its subs or affiliates?”

Tom cradled the phone, opened the overhead compartment and retrieved a laptop and garment bag while the plane taxied toward the single room terminal. “A company the size of Eurocon can have hundreds of those, Stu. You know that, and that not all of them use the parent company name. If you’ve got a list, email it to me. But like I said, I’m on vacation. And I’m about to get off a plane and start it.”

“Okay, Tom. But call me when you get the list. It’s important.”

Tom held the phone away from his ear and made a face, slinging the laptop strap over his shoulder and dragging the wheeled suitcase up the aisle.

“One more thing, Tom. Have you done any political fund-raising?”

“What?”

“Campaign fund-raising, that sort of thing.”

“I know what fundraising is. What’s that got to do with a conflicts check?”

The phone remained silent.

“Stu?”

“It’s not a conflicts check, Tom. The Compliance Committee needs to know if you’ve done any political fund-raising.”

“What? Hold on.” He lifted the suitcase and descended the half dozen steps to the tarmac. Fifty yards away, a Paul Bunyan-sized figure leaned against the door of a police car parked and idling in the No Parking Zone in front of the terminal.

“Of course I have,” he growled into the phone, dragging his suitcase toward the car. “And charitable fund raising and Greenpeace fundraising and practically every other kind. The firm knows that. They encourage it. Now what’s this about, Stu? Because you’re starting to put a damper on my hard-earned vacation.”

“Sorry, Tom. I guess that’s enough for now. I’ll get back to you if we need more.”

“Take your time.”

* * *

The outsized man beneath the Smokey the Bear hat detached himself from the Crown Victoria, revealing the words “Coldwater County Sheriff” painted in red across the door panels. “That better be a girl you’re talking to, or I’m supposed to take that Crackberry away from you.”

Tom slipped the phone into his pocket and hugged his younger brother, trying not to wince at the bone-crushing return. “Good to see you, too.”

“Don’t stay away so long, you won’t miss me so much.”

Tom felt his heels return to earth.

“Throw that stuff in the back. Bonnie and the girls are at school. Luke’s at daycare. Mom’s home and everyone’s excited to see you.”

“How is our favorite girl?”

“A pistol, as usual. Broken leg hasn’t slowed her down much. The cast comes off next week. Some geezer from the Senior Center’s been calling every day. But don’t mention that unless you want a crack to the shins with a metal walker.”

Tom had been about to start a long overdue, lie-on-a-beach–brushing-sand-off-your-stomach-and-deciding-what-to-do-next-with-your-life vacation when his brother called with the news that their mother had fallen and broken her leg. Changing plans was a simple matter of adjusting flights, discarding his Italian phrase book and postponing any life-altering decisions. It was simple enough that it should have come with a warning label. He threw his bags into the back of the patrol car and climbed into the passenger seat while his brother took a call on the hands-free mounted on the dashboard. “When did you get rid of the two way?” he asked when Joe had finished the call.

“Ten days ago, when Paulie Grogan and all three deputies jumped ship to join some new BCI Terrorist Task Force. The mayor says that the sheriff’s department doesn’t need a dispatcher for just one cop, so the town let Helen go, too. But they gave me this flip phone thing so I can take citizen calls directly.”

Tom felt his jaw hang open. “You’re out three cops and a dispatcher? It’s down to just you?”

“It’s temporary. Just until the town council can meet to authorize replacements. In the meantime, I patch over to DuBois at night and pick up again in the morning.”

Tom gave a weak whistle. “Is Bonnie okay with you out there herding the bad boys all by yourself?”

Joe stared straight ahead. “She’s pissed, which you’ll