Storm Damage

Copyright © 2012 by Linda Underwood

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-3828-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-3830-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-3829-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012912543

iUniverse rev. date: 8/2/2012

Contents

Dedications:

Acknowledgments:

The Event

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Dedications:

To my husband Gene, without whose patience, encouragement, and laptop I could not have written this.

To my Golden Retriever, Blue, who died before this tale was written, but his reference in the book still brings a tear to my eye. Anyone who has loved a Golden Retriever is better for the experience.

Acknowledgments:

Sheriff Ronnie Crockett, Sheriff of Lancaster County Virginia, whose cooperation was invaluable,

Investigator Ronald Hudson, for his technical support during the writing of the book;

Lt. Ashby Allen, Jr., for his valuable time and attention to detail and letting me pick his expert brain about hostage negotiations and violent crime.

Dave Farner, of the Audubon Naturalist Society, for his input concerning the nature of vultures in the Mid-Atlantic Region. It is a pleasure to watch and study them and they, in no small part, inspired this story.

Sincere love and thanks to:

Friends, family and neighbors for their unbiased reading, input and quick hand to delete whole chapters,

The diligence, exacting edits, suggestions, and

red pens of Betsy Schmidt, Donna Doleman and Virginia Baker,

Finally,

Nancy Johnson, for her friendship and faith in the story and me.

The Event

The blade plunged down and then down again. First a blow in the neck, then a second to the top of the shoulder. No noise, except their harsh, ragged breathing and the almost silent sound of the knife plunging down, then up and then down, over and over again. Now, just the sounds of the blade hitting fabric, then flesh, then bone. It found the stomach then slid down into the thigh. Adrenaline pumping strongly through the killer’s heart, and the sound of blood rushing through the ears, drowned out the increasingly strong storm as it cracked the upper limbs of the old bare walnut trees. The storm released old vines and began swinging them violently. Without warning, a stray vine slapped the killer’s face.

Nostrils flaring, the killer whispered "right on time," while becoming aware of and pleased with the gusts surrounding them. The killer took in the sublime reality of the impending storm.

The blade no longer shone under the full moon. Covered in blood, the knife and hand became one. Autumn leaves, seasonally yellow and brown, became red with blood and were silenced by the liquid weight. Others, a few feet away, moved and swirled upward as if to escape. The wind had picked up again and dark clouds began to cover the only light for this deadly dance. It did not take long for their eyes to adjust. Hot breath from the killer and the soon to be dead misted in the air and drifted upward, swirling feverishly and disappearing suddenly in the dark. The killer knew the invited audience would approve. The victim had been a vulture in life. It was only fitting that at the end, vultures should finish him off.

Not wanting to miss or forget the sensory thrill of the drama, the killer stopped. Standing very erect and surveying the stage, the killer became attentive to the overpowering smell of generations of damp mold, the rotted vestiges of last season and a hundred previous seasons’ leaves. Trees, fallen and forgotten, gave the event the pungent, dense, earthy smell of death. Energy to kill and energy to survive filled the night. Leaves. So many leaves. Heady oak, sticky sap from pine and sweet sassafras. Strengthening gusts began picking them up and moving them away, as if to spare the decaying bits and pieces from witnessing the horror. Swaying, gnarled branches turned away so as not to watch. The gusts were steadier and stronger now.

The killer stumbled backward, just missing a fallen tree trunk. The unmistakable smell of blood, sweet and metallic, mixed with the cold dense perfume of the forest. A strong squall blew through bending branches. The killer regained footing and continued the attack. Down again into the breast, then down again in the shoulder. Repeatedly the blade was driven into a body that was no longer moving. It found the face, hands, arms and legs. Blood was everywhere. Sprayed blood filled the killer’s nostrils, prompting curses and vile epithets. Droplets of sprayed blood dripped into the killer’s mouth. The killer’s tongue moved quickly to take in the salty sweat from exertion and the copper-tasting crimson liquid escaping from the dead. Night took over and suddenly the rain started, not a soft rain but large raindrops that stung. Blowing rain. Battering, flesh stinging rain. Rain that came not straight down, but from the side. The killer thought the rain might delay the plan, but it could not destroy it. The killer had brought insurance for any setback, muttering, Damn Weather Channel! It was not supposed to hit until after midnight.

The victim had stayed alive long enough during the assault to look at his assailant and beg for mercy, a plea he knew would not be granted. There would be no mercy that night. The attack had been too sudden, too unexpected, too violent, and too brutal; it left no time for defense.

Dead. No question that he was dead, but the blade continued its descent. Dead, but not dead enough by half. Now death was not enough. The heart and stomach needed to be exposed to the elements. With adrenaline coursing through and strengthening the killer’s muscles, the blade began slicing. Evisceration would not be necessary, just enough of the internal organs exposed to be readily available for the next step in the plan.

The landscape erupted with fury, as if the storm had its part. Mother Nature’s life and death spiral was playing out to the end. No sound, other than the beating rain hitting the leaves and the heavy breathing and pounding in the ears of the attacker. The killer stood for a moment, admiring and smiling at the result. Taking a few rain-filled deep breaths for composure, the killer walked back and opened the trunk of the car. Even through the heavy rain, the light from the trunk gave off enough illumination to see the large shopping bag. The stench of rotting meat, cut up so carefully into bite-size pieces, caught the killer by surprise. The hurricane could not mask the stink.

No one ever notices vultures and crows circling and diving for carrion. Devouring the dead is their job. No one would notice here, not in this place, where vultures are commonplace. It had all been part of the killer’s plan.

Sprinkling the rancid meat on and around the body did not seem so disgusting now. Nature’s clean-up crew would notice the corpse soon; the victim would not be found intact.

Leaning into the blowing rain, the killer struggled to make the few hundred yards to the Rappahannock River. It was far too dark to see the white caps but easy to hear the angry river slap against the shoreline. The killer threw the knife into the black, cold, windswept water. The blood-soaked bag, together with the killing costume, would be easily disposed of in any nearby dumpster. Its smell would not even draw attention. Rain, cleansing rain, calmed the killer, who, taking a last look at the grisly scene smiled and whispered, "Bon appétit".

"When I looked back on all that transpired, the first thing that came to mind was a quote from Clare Booth Luce—"No good deed goes unpunished.""—Joann Avery

A tropical depression has formed a tropical wave that is moving westward from the coast of Africa. Over the next several days, the wave is expected to move slowly westward and gradually become better organized.

Chapter 1

Joann

Y ou have reached voice mail for 703-555-0158. Please leave your name, number and brief message at the sound of the tone.

Joann? Are you there or are you screening your calls? If you’re there, Jo please pick up. Pick up! the frantic voice pleaded.

Even from the first floor garage, I recognized the voice. I raced upstairs to the phone in the kitchen, balancing soggy shopping bags and tripping on the hem of my raincoat in the process. I grabbed the phone just before it went to voice mail.

I’m here, Amy. Hold on while I put these bags down. Just give me a second. I hit the speakerphone button on the wall phone with one free hand, pulling off my soaking wet raincoat with the other. Hi sweetie, what’s going on? I said while sorting through the bags to get the milk, cheese, and eggs into the refrigerator as soon as possible.

Could you and Ken meet me for dinner tonight? My treat. I have to be down in Old Town for a meeting, Amy Hunter, my oldest and dearest friend asked, taking a deep breath.

I had planned a quiet dinner for us, but sure, we’ll meet you. Where? When? I have to talk to Ken first, of course, but I’m sure it will be okay. You know Ken, any excuse to break up the week. Especially when he can have dinner with two beautiful women, I responded and grimaced at the thawing steaks on the counter and the ever-growing puddle on the floor from the dripping raincoat.

You’re very funny Jo. Let’s make it easy. How about one of your favorites, The Warehouse Bar and Grill? Amy asked coyly, clearly wanting me to take the bait.

Sounds great. How about seven-thirty? Unless you hear from me, we’ll be there. I think Ken can make it by then, but I’ll have to talk to him. If he’s going to be late, we’ll just wait for him at the bar. I’ll make reservations. Are you okay? I asked, pleased at the prospect of seeing Amy but a little confused by the sudden invitation. Amy was not a drama queen. Even when extremely upset about something, she would be quietly upset.

If you can’t make it, call me on my cell. See you there, Amy responded, ending the call.

I disconnected the speakerphone option, picked up the receiver, and dialed the handy number to the restaurant. I kept a three-ring binder of menus, telephone numbers of our favorite carryout, delivery and eat-in restaurants near the phone. I am not sure when I started the practice, but it has always proven helpful. When the restaurant answered, I asked for reservations for three at seven-thirty that evening. The name is Avery, I said. Unrolling wads of paper towels to mop up the floor from the still-dripping coat, I thought about the rare tone in Amy’s voice.

Reaching Ken just as he was about to hit rainy rush hour traffic on the Washington Beltway, I explained that dinner was on Amy, and that we would be dining well and not too terribly far from home. I added that I had already made the reservations. Even with the prospect of dealing with the additional Old Town traffic, Ken seemed surprisingly elated at the change of plans for the evening. Thank God, I whispered under my breath as the receiver hit the cradle.

Suddenly aware of the cold dampness of the kitchen, I stood for a moment or two looking out of the second-floor kitchen window to the splashing rain on our short, suburban driveway. Not looking forward to going outside in the chilly rain yet again today, I shrugged and put the thawed steaks in the refrigerator and finished bringing in and putting away the groceries.

I took a long, hot shower, put on a little make-up, applied a small amount of greenish-brown eye shadow to highlight my hazel eyes (after all, it was evening), dressed casually–slacks this time, not jeans, red turtleneck sweater, and gray flannel blazer. I pulled my light brown hair into a neat ponytail noticing several thin silver streaks emerging in my thick shoulder length mane. My necklace, a present from my husband with a simple gold J, had picked up lint from the sweater I had been wearing earlier. I cleaned it and, as usual, wore it outside my turtleneck. I never take it off. The inscription on the back says, To J with love always so I wear it near my heart. Dismayed that my slacks were now tighter, and shamelessly blaming the dry cleaner for the fit, which I knew was not true, I convinced myself that a walk before dinner would take off at least five pounds, also not true. As it was still raining for the third day in a row, I donned my now dry raincoat and with plenty of time to spare, headed for Old Town.

Even though it was near the end of rush hour, my drive was slow. I seemed to hit every red light and pothole or ended up behind one lost tourist after another. While sitting at my umpteenth snarled intersection, I began to wonder about Amy’s call. We seldom discussed work. For the most part, our conversations were chatty, relaying comic events that had occurred in each of our separate lives. Occasionally current events or an opinion about something in the news. That is not the way it had always been. In our younger years, we shared deep dark secrets, telling all about our current loves, or should I say lust interests; took spur of the moment road trips to Ocean City; and during one fateful year, I held her hand when she found out she had breast cancer. I had been there for her that awful year, as designated driver and advocate with the hospitals and doctors. I helped her select wigs when she lost her hair and I was with her the day she was declared cancer-free.

Years earlier, Amy had helped me get through a nasty divorce and although she never had children, she became my Erma Bombeck when I was losing my mind rearing two young sons alone.

When I met and married Ken, Amy’s and my relationship evolved into one of quiet, simple warmth for each other. We did not see as much of each other, but each knew the other was there. Fewer phone calls, fewer dinners out, but we were both happy that each was in the other’s world. Like going to the closet and putting on comfortable, well-worn pink fluffy slippers on a cold winter’s night.

Suddenly my heart stopped when it occurred to me that her cancer might have come back. Of course, I would be there again for her, but I did not want to imagine the heartbreak if it were true.

Even with terrible traffic and taking side streets when I could, I still managed to arrive at King Street a little early. With the nine-to-five crowd almost gone, I was able get a parking space in the underground garage under the Courthouse near the restaurant. Parking in Old Town Alexandria, a suburb of Washington, D.C., had become such a hassle. I walked back to King Street and turned left, walking downhill on the somewhat steep, uneven brick sidewalks toward the river. The combination of pooling water and slippery wet fallen leaves added that little bit of hazard that caused one to be careful with every stride. The Warehouse Bar and Grill was halfway down the block on the other side of the street, but since I was early, I decided to browse through some of the shops and do a little window-shopping. Old Town Alexandria, or just Old Town as most locals prefer, had been transformed into a quaint area of 250-year-old buildings with façade protection and new buildings made to look 250 years old. Some remaining, original cobblestone streets and some narrowing, repaved streets made street parking difficult, not to mention the irritating bumper-to-bumper traffic. In the rain, it was a nightmare.

In its earlier life, Old Town, located on the Potomac River, was a major port for shipping and trading products and slaves—not as popular as Baltimore was for larger ships, but important nonetheless. Historic buildings, historic houses, historic commerce. I adored looking at the buildings and, for my personal reasons, the occasional surviving alleys and gardens, probably a legacy of my few years working with the National Trust for Historic Preservation. An appreciation of times gone by and a desire to protect the evidence of the past was another obsession Amy and I shared. My mind always tried to imagine if there had been a small store or house where a vacant lot now sat. Who had lived there; who worked there? I found myself stopping, closing my eyes and trying to hear and smell the past.

Although I am a native Washingtonian, my husband Ken came east from Utah. Ken, a career soldier, had completed his retirement tour from the Army at the Pentagon. It was there that we had met. Wanting more money than non-profit organizations could offer, I learned and excelled at computers. I, Joann Avery, married Ken when I was thirty-something, but now was fifty-something.

Ken and I knew from the very first that we were made for each other. He is a patient man, a smart and gentle man, and he loves women. I could never trust a man who did not love women. Ken loves me. I know it in my soul. After all, as the bumper sticker says, Virginia is for Lovers. We became the poster children.

Ken left the military and started his own construction-related company—a natural follow-on to his experience as an Army Engineer and Construction Manager. Ken retired as a Lieutenant Colonel. With the income from Ken’s thriving business, we had had enough discretionary income to own two houses. For Ken, it also meant that he could afford his new passion, a Corvette convertible.

We had lived in a townhouse in a quiet neighborhood of Alexandria for many years while we both pursued our separate careers. I, was now retired and, our children (from separate marriages) were grown, but we were not unhappy about having an empty nest. Over the past five years, we had also built a home near Mollusk in Lancaster on the Northern Neck of Virginia. The Northern Neck is the peninsula between the Potomac and Rappahannock Rivers on the western shore of the Chesapeake Bay, a place both beautiful and historic.

My routine was to travel between the two houses in Alexandria and Mollusk every week. I called the two houses the evil twins, not because I did not love them—I love them both dearly—but because they both required my time and attention, and the fact that they were 125 miles apart did not help. The only way I could keep them straight was to have ongoing detailed to do and to buy lists for both, a throwback from my office manager days. If on my list, it was done or bought; if not, it did not or was not.

When in Alexandria, I made a point of staying in touch with old friends. Over the years I have made sure to, at the very least, send funny cards and personal notes for no special reason. I have always felt it nice to get something in the mail besides bills and junk mailers. It seemed to me regrettable that personal note writing had become a lost art, but I tried to keep it alive and well. Whenever I came to Old Town, I always browsed the card shops for new material, and this was a perfect opportunity. The number of card shops in Old Town had declined, but I was able to find just what I needed. I purchased seven cards, stuffed the bag in my purse and realized I still had fifteen minutes or so for some much needed personal time.

I raced down to the Torpedo Factory at the end of the block nearest the river. As the name implied, the building had been used to manufacture torpedoes during World War II and before, but had evolved into an artisan’s haven that displays and sells local art and sculpture. The prices were normally out of my reach, so I did some window-shopping and continued my stroll. I glanced at my watch and realized I was now running a few minutes late to meet Amy.

Strolling less leisurely and pulling up my raincoat hood against the heavy drizzle, I noticed that some of the merchants near the river had already begun to stockpile sand bags near their entrances against what might be a flood. Although tropical storms seldom reached Alexandria with any force, flooding during extremely heavy, rainy conditions always raised the headwaters of the Potomac River, which ultimately flooded Old Town.

As I entered the Warehouse Bar and Grill, I asked the maitre d’ if anyone had arrived for the Avery table. The tuxedoed man behind the desk said that only one had arrived and was sitting at the bar. I walked back to the small, but finely appointed bar in the middle of the restaurant. Ken would know to find me there. After years of meeting each other’s planes or meeting each other for dinner, we long ago had made a pact that if we did not see each other immediately, we would go to the nearest bar. That is where the other would be waiting.

Amy was seated on one of the ten plushly padded bar stools, drinking her usual, a White Russian. I climbed onto the bar stool next