Serenity Engulfed

  Serenity Engulfed

  A Shelby Alexander Thriller

  Craig A. Hart

  Northern Lake Publishing

  Copyright © 2018 by Craig A. Hart

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published by Northern Lake Publishing

  Contents

  Also by Craig A. Hart

  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

  Also by Craig A. Hart

  The SpyCo Novella Series

  Assignment: Athens

  Assignment: Paris

  Assignment: Istanbul

  Assignment: Sydney

  Assignment: Alaska

  Assignment: Dublin

  The Shelby Alexander Thriller Series

  Serenity

  Serenity Stalked

  Serenity Avenged

  Serenity Submerged

  Serenity Engulfed

  1

  The energetic pop melody came through the car stereo loud and clear as Leslie Alexander drove the dark Michigan highway. The headlights barely pierced the night as she sped along, exceeding the speed limit and bouncing her head to the music. The road was tree-lined and curvy, but Leslie was in her element. For the first time since she’d given birth to her daughter, she was baby-free and intended to live it up for the next few days. With baby Shelby—named for the child’s grandfather—safely in the care of a doting grandmother, Leslie was free to drink, stay up late, sleep in, and indulge herself. Even her breasts weren’t hurting that badly—a luxury in these days of breastfeeding—a sure sign this vacation was destined to be epic.

  Leslie glanced at her phone and tapped the screen to change songs. She hated waiting for them to fade out, preferring to go through the effort of manually skipping tracks. Her father said that was but one example of her extreme impatience, and Leslie couldn’t entirely disagree. She knew her parents, although thrilled to have a grandchild, harbored grave doubts about her becoming a parent. Less than a year ago, she had doubted her own ability to care for and keep alive another human, so she couldn’t very well resent someone else for having those same doubts. But Leslie felt she had proven herself since the baby’s birth. It had been a difficult adjustment, to be sure, but wasn’t it for everyone? The baby was healthy and happy. That was the goal, after all, and Leslie was proud of herself for accomplishing such a thing.

  As dedicated a mother as she had been, however, Leslie had yearned for a break from the daily grind of parenthood. When the opportunity arose to visit friends in Traverse City—a stone’s throw from her father’s cabin in northern Michigan—she had jumped at the chance. Staying with her dad for several days wasn’t Leslie’s idea of a great time, even though she wouldn’t be around the cabin much. She loved him, of course, but he was overprotective and drove her crazy with blatant disregard for his own well-being. They’d also had their share of disagreements. Leslie had been the unfortunate victim of a divorce that turned her into a court system pawn. At the end, she had been sent to live with her mother, who allowed her bitterness toward Leslie’s father to infect daily life. As a result, Leslie learned to blame her father for the breakup.

  Over time, old wounds began to heal and now the family was as close as they had been since the divorce. The baby helped, since Leslie’s parents were more interested in having access to the child than fighting with each other, and they knew Leslie would not hesitate to revoke privileges were things to ever get out of hand.

  Leslie tapped once more to skip a song, smiled when she saw one of her favorites was next, then looked back at the road.

  And screamed.

  There, in the middle of the road, was an old woman dressed in rags. Her gray hair, parted in the middle, hung down around her face like wet string, limp and dirty.

  Leslie slammed on the brakes and twisted the wheel. She felt the tires go off the road and released the brake, remembering something about the danger of flipping a vehicle by braking too suddenly on a shoulder—or was that turning too sharply? Then the trees were coming up fast and she stomped the brakes again and the car came to a sliding, rocking halt.

  2

  The metal swinging doors of the county morgue loomed in front of Shelby Alexander like the entrance to his own death. In fact, his own death would have been preferable to what he was about to face: the cold, lifeless body of his only child. He braced himself and tried to steel his mind against what had to be done. Slowly, he reached out with a trembling hand and placed his palm against the door. It was cool to the touch. He pushed and it gave way before him.

  Inside the room, it was dim, the harsh lights having been lowered to a sickly, blueish glow. In the middle of the room was a table consisting of a simple slab of stainless steel. On top was a body covered by a white sheet. Shelby walked forward. He felt numb, but the absence of emotion was agonizing. He stood over the body, then reached out and gripped the corner of the sheet. He pulled it back, the light cloth feeling as if it weighed a hundred pounds.

  And there she was—his little girl.

  Leslie’s skin was tinged blue, but otherwise, she looked as if she might be sleeping, leaving Shelby with the almost uncontrollable urge to shake her to see if she might wake up. He gripped her shoulders and looked down. Memories raced through his mind, happy times and regrets, all the joy she had brought—trials too, but even those now seemed sweet in the face of utter loss. This was his child and he would never see her alive again.

  A stab of raw emotion pierced the numbing veil and Shelby felt himself breaking down. He closed his eyes and gripped the table’s cold metal edge as his knees turned to water and he knelt on the tile floor. He reached under the sheet and gripped Leslie’s hand, clutching it as if to impart some of his own warmth. He realized he was sobbing and he bent over, his head almost hitting the floor, as the sharpest pain he’d ever experienced tore through his chest and midsection.

  This must be what heartbreak feels like, he thought, wondering if he might die and hoping he would, if that meant he could be with his daughter, if only to see her one last time.

  Shelby awoke with a start, his face dripping with sweat. His heart pounded from his chest and a name formed on his tongue.

  Leslie…

  He was in his living room, not the morgue, and his fingers were clutching an empty scotch glass, not the cold flesh of his dead daughter. A dream—a nightmare—that was all it had been. He leaned back in the recliner, his heart slowly returning to its regular pace and rhythm.

  Then a noise set it galloping once more and he sat up.

  Shelby was used to the night sounds of living in a secluded, wooded area. The animals and other nightlife could squawk all they wanted and his ear wouldn’t even twitch. But this—this had not been a sound native to the night forest.

  For several seconds, he remained still, trying to gather his wits. At last, he was able to piece things together: he was alone, in his recliner, with a book fallen sideways onto his chest. His reading glasses were askew and he felt a litt
le drool at the corner of his mouth.

  “Charming, Shelby,” he muttered, setting the scotch glass on a nearby end table. “You are getting so old, it’s pathetic. One step away from the nursing home.”

  He gave his head a shake to clear the remaining cobwebs and put the recliner’s leg rest down. He stood up, stretched, and then remembered the noise. He stood still, listening. Had it been his imagination? A dream? He’d obviously been deeply asleep.

  Then he heard it again. A scrabbling, scratching sound near the front door. Shelby picked up his pistol from the coffee table. It was nothing, of course—probably just a small branch blown onto the porch by the wind—but he’d learned not to take chances. His next thought was that his friend Jerry MacIntyre, known to almost everyone as Mack, was playing a practical joke. Mack was due up from Detroit the next morning, and it would be like him to arrive early and think it funny to give his old pal a heart attack. On the other hand, Mack knew Shelby carried a gun and, as an ex-cop, Mack wasn’t likely to treat that knowledge lightly.

  Shelby unlocked the door and, bracing his foot along the bottom edge, eased it open.

  There was no one in sight. No vicious beast flung itself against the door. No shot rang out.

  Shelby opened the door farther and peered out into the darkness. Nothing stirred. It was still.

  Then he heard the scratching again and a shape moved in his peripheral vision. He turned his head quickly. Nothing. Then he looked down and saw a small form creeping along the base of the cabin wall where it met the porch.

  A cat. A damn cat.

  Shelby stuck the gun in his waistband and crouched down. The animal hesitated, staring with glittering, suspicious eyes.

  “Come on, cat. You woke me up, albeit from a horrible nightmare. No fair being shy now.”

  The cat didn’t move and Shelby grunted. He’d always been a dog person, until Sheba—his Boston Terrier—had died a while back. He’d often thought of getting another dog, but things had been too hectic. And then the grandchild had come along and Shelby wasn’t sure he’d be home long enough to properly care for a dog, what with his regular visits downstate.

  Shelby stood and held up one finger at the cat. “Just a minute. I think I know what you’ll like.”

  Going to the refrigerator, he pulled out some turkey from a leftover sandwich he’d purchased from The Barn Door bar and grill that afternoon and returned to the porch. The cat was still there but hadn’t ventured closer. Shelby knelt and tossed a scrap of turkey so it landed about a foot away from the cat’s now-twitching nose. The animal stretched its neck out, trying to reach the turkey without stepping closer. Realizing this would be impossible, the cat stepped forward, grabbed the turkey, and quickly retreated. It ate the morsel in a single chomp and swallow.

  “You don’t trust easily, do you?” Shelby said, tossing another turkey bit. “I don’t blame you, little guy.”

  For the next few minutes, he tried to coax the animal closer, but it would only venture another couple of steps, even when Shelby placed the rest of the turkey in a pile in front of the door and stepped back.

  At last, he gave up.

  “All right, cat. Have it your way.”

  He shut the door, locked it, and went to bed.

  3

  Shelby poured a shot of whiskey into his coffee and moved the cup in a circular motion to mix the ingredients. “It’s good to see you, Quinn.”

  Quinn Edwards settled into the kitchen chair and accepted the cup of steaming coffee Shelby held toward her. “Likewise. Thanks for agreeing to see me on such short notice.”

  “I confess my motives were more selfish than not.”

  “Ah, you missed me.”

  “I did, yes. And my daughter Leslie is visiting this weekend and I thought you two might hit it off.”

  Quinn smiled broadly. “I’m sure she’s lovely, Shelby, but I’m not on the market.”

  “Not that.” Shelby surprised himself by turning a bit red in the ears. “I also have Mack visiting and if Leslie has any intention of sticking around Serenity while she’s here, I was worried she’d feel out of place with two old geezers. Plus, she’s been having a rough time of it lately.”

  “With the baby or the aftermath of the incident in Grand Rapids?”

  Shelby raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me, I see.”

  “I wrote a magazine feature about it,” Quinn said. “You’ve become something of a hobby of mine.”

  “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or disturbed.”

  “It’s purely professional. As you know, I write true crime books. You’re becoming something of a legend among those in the field and I’ve convinced my editor a book about your exploits is something that could really sell.”

  Shelby sat back in his chair. “You must be joking.”

  “Not at all.”

  “And that’s why you wanted to see me?”

  “To get the inside details, yes. At least, some of them.” Quinn sampled her coffee. “I’m hoping my charms would work better if I visited in person.”

  “It’s all business, then,” Shelby said, projecting a regret only partly manufactured.

  Quinn tilted her head and gave him a pitying look. “Don’t be too disheartened. It’s a personal risk I’m taking.”

  “A personal risk?”

  “Why, yes. You’re not without charms yourself, you know.”

  Shelby chuckled. “You know all the right things to say.”

  “Besides, I like it up here.”

  “Even after–” Shelby was referring to Quinn’s previous experience in Serenity, when she’d had the opportunity to show off her skills as a marksman using a highly personal target.

  “Especially after that. Serenity feels like the place where I... found myself or something. Is that weird?”

  Shelby shook his head. “I don’t think so. I was hoping it would do the same for me when I moved back.”

  “And it hasn’t happened?”

  “Not quite. When you return to the place you grew up, there are a lot of ghosts still around. Eventually there will come a time when you have to face those ghosts and either reconcile with them or let them go forever. That time hasn’t come yet for me.”

  “What kind of ghosts?”

  Shelby chuckled. “You’re good, you know that? Already got me talking. How’d you do that?”

  Quinn cast him a sly look Shelby found highly attractive. “I’m a professional, remember?”

  “Yes. And I won’t forget it again.”

  “That’s why you should let me write a book about you.”

  “And be the subject of a major publishing failure? I don’t need that on my record.”

  “You’d be missing out. I’ve lost count of the people who have asked me about you.”

  “Come again?”

  “People ask about you. Colleagues, mostly. Peers. They’re jealous I got to see you in action.”

  “You were the hero of that story,” Shelby said. “They ought to be jealous of me.” He thought for a moment. “But seriously—how many inquiries have you had?”

  “Dozens, of all types. Some want to know more about you, some want to know background information on locales, other individuals involved. Anything you can imagine. I even had one bite for a mini-series, but they wanted more material than my articles could provide.”

  “Ah, so that’s why you want me to squeal like a pig. You need the material.”

  Quinn shrugged. “Sue me. You’d get your cut.”

  “It’s not the money.”

  “But you’ll do it? You’ll let me interview you on the record?”

  Shelby sighed. “I’ll think about it.”

  Quinn pumped her fist. “That’s a yes.”

  “No, it is not a yes. It’s a maybe.”

  “Okay, so it’s a maybe. But it’s really a yes.”

  Shelby glowered. “You and Leslie should get along just fine.”

  “If she likes to make you uncomf
ortable as much as I do, then I’m sure we will.” Quinn laughed and then sobered. “There was one thing I wanted to tell you. It’s probably nothing, but I thought it worth mentioning.”

  “What is it?”

  “When I was writing about the incident in Grand Rapids, I interviewed a lot of people, including a couple of men caught up in the police sweep that occurred after you turned Darkmore’s empire into smoking wreckage. I didn’t get much out of them then, but a few days ago, I got a call from one.”

  “What did he have to say?”

  “I never completely found out. I missed the call and only heard the message. When I tried to establish contact, I was told he’d been murdered in prison.”

  “Anything personal?”

  “Not according to the warden. A dispute over a joint, they said.”

  “What did he say in the message?”

  “He said he had information about you and Leslie.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No. I probably should have called you right away, but I assumed he meant he’d remembered details about the incident. Then I began wondering if it was something else entirely.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just—wait, I saved the message so you could hear it yourself.” Quinn tapped on her phone screen and handed it to Shelby. “Just tap there to listen.”

  Shelby took the phone and followed instructions. There were a few moments of static and then a thin voice said,

  “Hi…this is Greg Sanders. You probably don’t remember, but you interviewed me about the Darkmore thing. I have something else you might be interested to know about him and his daughter. I’d contact Mr. Alexander himself, but I don’t have his number.” There was more static and then, “I gotta go. Call me back, would ya?” Then the message ended. Shelby handed the phone back to Quinn, who looked slightly pale.