Nocturnal: A Christopher Lance Thriller

By L. Jerome Word

In Nocturnal, Christopher, a brash reporter, has trouble with the night. An insomniac, he rarely sleeps and, when he does, nightmares stemming from the unsolved murder of a childhood friend fifteen years earlier haunt him. But when he meets a young girl, who is the splitting image of his friend, and with the same name and same mother, his obsession intensifies.

With his obsession pushing away the woman he loves and threatening his promising career, Christopher seeks to halt the nightmares by solving the mystery of the murder. Through twists and turns, Christopher’s investigation takes him back to his sleepy hometown as well as the voodoo tinged world of the Louisiana Delta. Along the way, unknown forces that don’t want him to find the truth threaten his very life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L. Jerome Word
• Release date: Mar 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476391670

L. Jerome Word

Born near Nashville, Tennessee, after bouncing around the Midwest and Deep South, the author now resides in Jackson, Tennessee with his wife. At night, during those nocturnal hours, he writes, but during the day he ‘makes a living’.His next Christopher Lance Novel will be available winter of 2013.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Harmony, Tennessee

15 Years Earlier

Every person – man, woman, and child – believed the girl was probably dead…

Still, townspeople searched in shifts from the eastward dawn to the sun’s setting in the west behind the rolling hills of the Cumberland basin. And even though no one would say it, at least not until a body was found, most everyone believed she’d been killed by a madman, possibly a serial killer, and probably raped. The entire town searched and waited – half in shock and half in terror that in this sleepy hamlet their children were not safe.

Under gray skies, volunteers flanked out across the field led by Deputy Ralph McNaughton, and as instructed, each person walked slowly looking from side to side. If the rag tag group were given rifles and redcoats they might be mistaken for British soldiers during the Revolution. The troop of civilians stepped in perfect time as if they had just graduated from boot camp but, actually, they were tense with anticipation. Then someone yelled. A volunteer had seen something and now everyone scattered about, like a group of mice might when the kitchen light is flicked on, forgetting about their earlier discipline.

The child they searched for was Gabrielle Toms, a charming twelve year old with a devilish streak. This was the third day that she had neither been seen nor heard from. Gabrielle was a stunning child and sure to grow into a woman that would wreak havoc on the hearts of unsuspecting and suspecting men. She had a bronze complexion, flowing dark brown hair, and large, vibrant eyes that bounced and danced when she laughed. And now she was gone.

It’s nothing. Just a damn raccoon! someone shouted. Most people took deep breathes, secretly saying thanks for the small sliver of hope that remained. Instead of reforming their rigid line the crowd mulled around as if needing a break and the false alarm provided a nice time-out for them.

Richard Dickey Lighter, the coroner at the local hospital looked noticeably shaken as he attempted to usher everyone back into their methodical format. He yelled and waved his arms in the air as a young fledgling just dropped from his mother’s nest might. No one paid him much attention though as he always droned on about something. Finally, he realized his efforts were useless and with his head down, shuffled back toward his pick-up truck parked on the shoulder of the road.

The sky was murky, a dense gray, and the wind whipped about in swirling motions, taking several baseball caps off their owner’s heads only to lay them to rest several yards away. The morning temperature started well above freezing but had steadily dropped during the day. The volunteers had brought out their mittens and scarves and stocking caps months earlier than normal.

Okay everyone, Deputy McNaughton said, thrusting his chest outward in order to better project his voice. Let’s get back in our formation. The commotion is over.

McNaughton’s voice carried a bit more weight than Dickey’s but not much. Still, people slowly began to reform their line, although a smattering of disgruntled comments could be heard from some of the men. Then the rains started. First, the rain fell light and no one really paid any attention to it, then in a matter of seconds the sky appeared to be a waterfall. Scurrying for shelter, the crowd ran toward the road and to their automobiles, except for Christopher Lance.

Thirteen year old Christopher had splintered from the group when the initial yelling started and walked toward the edge of the forest and a row of unyielding pine trees. As the rains drenched his clothes and hair, his only thoughts were of his best friend, his Gabrielle. The rest of the crowd might be scared off by a little water but I’m gonna find her…I owe it to her, he thought. Christopher could tell that the others had given up hope that she was alive but he still had faith that he’d find her somewhere hiding behind a tree, playing one of her world famous jokes. Just maybe she’d be laughing from her belly with those twinkling eyes.

He could hear the cries of people at the road, screaming for him to get out of the rain. You’ll catch your death of cold, they yelled. Still, he kept walking toward the Pines until he was diverted by a force that was not his own that willed him to move to an overgrown patch of grass behind a rain-filled ditch. He walked toward the patch with the unbridled curiosity that all children have, not afraid of what he might find but knowing that he should be. With each step used to approach the patch, his plastic boots took on more water. Spraying sideways now, the rains were heavier, and Christopher could barely see where he was going. Still, guided by some force, he walked directly to ditch.

He slid down the ditch, landing on his rear. Crawling up the other side of the furrow, he stood in front of the overgrown grass, which came to his chin. He stepped through the brush, using his hands in a breaststroke motion to clear the way. Then he looked down and saw her and screamed.

CHAPTER 1

Atlanta, Georgia

Present Day

My face was drenched with sweat as I jerked upward from my prone position, almost tumbling to the floor. Looking at my psychiatrist’s face turn from a rosy pink to a lifeless colorless hue, I surmised, that my scream must have been loud and chilling. I braced myself before speaking but her words were already out.

Well, Christopher, she said, that was extremely interesting. I don’t know what to make of it.

I felt like I’d just run a marathon. I held my face in my hands, wiping away the sweat, and then shaking my head to get rid of the cobwebs. I screamed. Didn’t I? I asked, but I knew I had screamed, one that was full of fear.

Yes Christopher. You’ve never done that before. Progress, she said, scribbling something on her pad and taking a sip of water.

Dr. Fields, I don’t need progress. I need sleep. It’s been two months since I’ve had a decent night’s sleep and re-living Bre’s murder is not doing me any good.

Dr. Abby Fields, a patient, understanding woman as her profession would dictate, now smiled at me as if I was a wounded animal and only she could remove the splinter from my paw. Christopher, I know your insomnia and nightmares are getting worse but we are making progress. I was able to take you right up to the point when you found her body.

I guess that was some type of progress but, hell, it was hard to tell while under hypnosis. A hypnosis that I didn’t fully believe in.

The nightmares are not just getting worse, I said. "I’d be fine with worse…it’s the vividness. I wake up drenched at night as if those same rains had covered my body. The shouts from the crowd echo from every direction. I feel icy cold hands grasping at my body as I’m walking through the field. It’s just so real.

It seems as soon as I close my eyes the nightmares surge. I’ll wake up soaked and only ten minutes have passed. Things are getting more urgent. I feel something’s going to happen soon."

Something inside your world concerning the murder has definitely changed. I think it’s important we address your true feelings at the time you found her body. After all she was your dear friend and you were absorbed by feelings of guilt, possibly still are. Guilt and your idea that her killer is free and an innocent man is sitting in prison for the rest of his life. That’s a lot to work through, she said, smiling the entire time.

The killer is still out there, I said. I don’t know why I think that but I know Ford didn’t do it. I knew him. He was friends with most of the neighborhood children. He was friends with Bre.

Ford Hunley was a madman. I think that was pretty well documented, she responded, still smiling but now with more teeth.

I laughed at her. She was confrontational as well as understanding and I liked it.

Now tell me, Dr. Fields, how would you know whether Ford Hunley was crazy or not? Have you taken him under and made him scream?

She chuckled, shifted in her leather recliner, and shook her head in disbelief. Well, actually I’ve done some research on the murder and, specifically, the trial. The entire case was circumstantial but the only conclusion the jury could have made was that he was guilty. I wasn’t there but, according to my analysis, the man had been a ticking bomb for some time, simply waiting to explode.

No. You weren’t there, I said. If you had been you’d have known something was wrong.

But there was evidence, Christopher. I’ve read the transcripts.

He didn’t kill her, I said. The evidence was there but something was wrong.

Abby spoke after waving at her chin, which meant she was analyzing, So, what is it that you’re going to do, Christopher?

There it was – succinct and impossible for me to miss. She had looked through my skin and into my eyes to pull out the question that haunted me. Bre, as I always called her, was my best friend and Ford was a gentle man who’d been kind to me as a child and both were done an injustice. And me, well, I’d done nothing about it.

Suppose I’ll have to solve the mystery, I said.

And where will you start?

Bre’s mother sounds like a good choice. She was so suspicious, then after the trial the woman disappeared. Thin air as they say, I said in Abby’s silence. Abby always waited until I was finished speaking.

You hated her mother.

I didn’t hate her, I never knew her. Bre told me her mother hated for her to be around boys. She was extremely strict in that way, so I never met her mother. I don’t even think she knew I existed, I said. But I do think she lied at the trial.

Okay. Well, let’s talk about Dorian Toms. We have plenty of time. My eleven o’clock canceled, she said.

Damn. Eleven. I knew I was in trouble. I hated tardiness and I was late for a meeting with my personal investigator and best friend. I’ve got a meeting with Mac in fifteen minutes.

But we were making progress.

I was already up and turning the doorknob. Sorry Dr. Fields, progress will have to wait. I’ve got news to make.

I left her office knowing that she was wrong this time. There were just things I’d known all my life. I knew something big would happen soon and whatever it was would change my life.

~***~

The sun beamed down on Pryor St. as if a giant magnifying glass had been placed in front of it, intensifying the heat that sprayed upon downtown Atlanta. I swear I could see the heat seeping up from the smoldering pavement. I was the only person on the street not wearing some kind of hat. And I regretted it now.

Hotlanta, as some call the city, was quite an understatement and it had been for the past two weeks. The temperature had risen to over one hundred degrees the past nine days and had not been under ninety in the past four. The entire southeast was enveloped in the current heat wave but Atlanta was at its epicenter – it was like a two-week natural inferno. Thirteen dead.

I noticed the maroon Lincoln Navigator just where I expected to find it, sitting at the corner of Pryor and Trinity. Inconspicuous, right.

Mac, let me in. My feet are about to melt, I said, knocking on his passenger side window. He clicked the locks and I climbed into the frosty SUV.

Welcome to the stake-out Chris. Feels like the Poconos in here, baby. Look at them fry out there, Mac said, his most precocious grin in play.

MacKenzie Crawford, my best friend since our baseball playing days at Georgia Tech, was the proprietor of Crawford Investigative Services. He started the company after a damaged shoulder sabotaged his burgeoning Major League career. CIS specialized in rich wives who wanted to spy on their philandering husbands but in his spare time he did work for me – sometimes pro-bono, sometimes not. He had four investigators working for him and one of them was presently in the governmental building that housed the mayor’s office fishing for names and addresses.

Brr, I said with a fake shiver and then to Mac. Sorry, my psych had me hold up in her office making me scream. Who’s in the mayor’s office anyway?

You don’t know him. He’s a new guy. Mac said he had found him somewhere in New Jersey down on his luck. His name was Ragusa.

He needs to deliver the goods on the mayor. Time’s getting short.

Since when have you been adhering to your boss’s timelines? You’re not the real Christopher Lance. Maybe someone’s put a spell on you.

I’ve been under the microscope ever since the fanfare surrounding the Child Stealer case died down. It’s not just my boss. It’s the whole damn office. She even wants me to work with with one of her underlings on this story. Wants him to be my apprentice or something.

Mac said, You need to tell the wigs at the paper this is an extremely delicate operation. We’re the professionals and our investigation cannot be rushed.

I waited a second to see if he could keep a straight face. You haven’t been a professional since you were hurling a little white ball. For you this is a hobby.

This is a vendetta, Mac said, smirking the whole time. I never liked the mayor anyway.

Money laundering, misappropriation of funds, and just generally being a shady guy were the reasons Mac and I were staked out investigating the mayor. Atlanta had recently finished a new arena and I thought some of the taxpayer funds for the project ended up lining the mayor’s pockets. I had only tips from seedy government personalities – some had grudges while others just wanted to seem important. After taking all this into account, the charges seemed credible and worthy of investigation, except I no longer cared about the case. I hadn’t slept well in months and it seemed as if my life had imploded inside my head.

No disrespect, Chris, but you look like shit, Mac said, nonchalant, like he had asked me what was for dinner. He had the golden boy look down. His was tall, blond, and always the center of attention.

I had a rough night.

More like a rough few weeks, man. You’ve looked like this for a month. I just haven’t said anything about it. Mac checked his rearview mirror for the fourth time since I’d been in the car. Nightmares?

Yep, Bre’s murder. The nightmares have been getting worse. It’s like I’m being drawn into something but I don’t know what. I can see her face as clearly as the day before she disappeared. Abby tells me that I’m—

Abby? Mac raised his right eyebrow.

Dr. Fields, I said. I hated it when Mac was being a smart ass since that was my job. She tells me that I’m making good progress though.

He checked his rearview mirror again.

Good ole Dr. Abby Fields. I’ve been thinking I need to see her myself. I believe I have what the shrinks call some unresolved issues from my tour in the big league. I constantly see line drives coming at my head and wake up sweating.

He checked his side mirror this time.

Okay, Mac. What the hell is going on? I asked and then it hit me. I know. You’re working another case.

Listen before you blow up, I’ve been trying to catch Greg Chesterfield in the act with this fashion executive for two months and I saw him go into the Marriot half an hour ago. It’s lunch time so it has to be a quickie. I didn’t know he’d just walk in front of my face. Besides, Gloria’s paying me three hundred dollars a day and you aren’t paying me squat.

Great. The mayor is probably laundering money and we’re scoping out a lightweight adulterer. He may be a top executive at CNN but I hardly think he’s news worthy.

Adultery is paying well nowadays. Besides my ex-wife buys a lot shoes. Alimony.

Just as Mac took another peek at the Marriot’s doors behind him, his pager vibrated and he reached for it.

Let’s go. My guy’s in trouble.

What kind of trouble? I asked.

Heck, who knows. He put in nine-one-one.

We both jumped out of the Navigator, heading for the mayor’s office, when Mac took one last look over his shoulder to the Marriot.

Shit, Chesterfield’s leaving with his girlfriend. You’ve got to get me a picture, Chris. I’ll take care of Ragusa, Mac said.

That’s not my job, Mac. I don’t spy on private citizens and their private matters, I said, now standing in the middle of Trinity.

Chris, time is wasting. Here take this. He shoved a small digital camera into my chest. Go over and take the picture, while I check on our operation.

Before I could object again, he dashed through midday traffic toward the capital, leaving me to fend off an oncoming Mercedes Benz. I bobbed to the right, eluding the car as the muffled boom of its horn zoomed past my ear.

I sprinted across the street to the Marriot where Chesterfield stood with a pretty brunette. They held hands in downtown Atlanta for goodness sake. How dumb could you be and still be a millionaire? I could get a few months of pro-bono detective work for this picture. I made sure not to get too close trying to avoid a nasty confrontation. Click. I turned to walk away then thought I might want to get one more picture for insurance. Click, click. Chesterfield was screwed. Gloria would take the house, the cars, and half his fortune and I felt none too good about it. I turned to walk toward the capital half expecting to see Mac and, his new guy, Ragusa being hauled out by APD when I felt someone standing over my shoulder. As I turned to look, I was socked in the back by Chesterfield.

You bastard! What the hell are you doing? he yelled but didn’t stop for an answer. He snatched the camera when I lost my balance and dashed across the street like a pickpocket on Piedmont.

I followed after him, dodging a speeding pick-up. Chesterfield, that’s not your property. Give that back. I said.

‘Up yours,’ was his response.

We raced down Trinity and turned onto Central, both of us recklessly weaving our bodies around unsuspecting people. I couldn’t believe I was chasing this man, a multi-millionaire executive, whose privacy I had invaded for no news worthy purpose, but it must have been instinct that drove me forward in that obscene heat. With sweat dripping from my chin, I gained on Chesterfield.

I felt, with each step that hit the pavement, my head swim and my vision blur. My eyesight went black and the next instant I saw a flash of light. I could see myself running toward the edge of the forest in the midst of tall, stretching pines. I looked down to see grass under my feet – under my loafers. Shaking my head and blinking my eyes, I was transported back to the smoldering asphalt streets of Atlanta.

Chesterfield turned into an alley heading for Decatur Street. As he crossed Decatur, I was almost able to reach out and grab the collar of his blazer when he dashed into First Georgia Bank. The full lines of people, most of them on lunch break, stared as we maneuvered around them. Chesterfield knocked over an elderly man and kept moving. I stopped to help him up and lost sight of the executive/thief among the people entering from the other side of the bank lobby.

When I got to Edgewood Avenue, the other side of the bank, the camera snatcher was heading into The Arts Museum and Foundation building and I followed, now solely out of anger

I stepped inside the museum foyer, which was large and circle shaped with exhibit rooms flanked along the wall. At sixty degree angles on either side of the circle were staircases leading to multiple levels of exhibits and offices. I looked and saw no one resembling Chesterfield. It was obvious that I had lost him. Even if I got lucky and found the exhibit that he had ducked into, what was I going to do – kick his ass? That wasn’t my style, and, besides, I was tired and dripping wet.

I walked across the marble floor to the water fountain, barely staying out of the path of several young girls who pranced around the foyer. I splashed water on my face and my blurred vision started to clear. The museum now seemed fantastic with the marble columns and sharp angles reaching toward the ceiling, which made the interior look as if it stretched for miles.

Excuse me, Mister. I turned to see a ruby-faced girl with diamond shaped freckles. Would you like to buy – oh, hold on. I meant to say, I’m with the Friar Middle School Inner Visions program and we’re being sponsored by the Arts Museum. Would you like to buy a summer pass to the museum? We get a portion of the proceeds.

I held up a finger to say just a minute and then grabbed a hold of my pants at the knees as I sucked in as much oxygen as I could. When I looked up the girl was still standing there holding a booklet containing season passes. She had a goofy grin on her face, the kind you have at that age. I saw twenty dollars printed on the front of the booklet and reached into my pocket. Since the Child Stealer case, a case that had made me famous, I had become more aware of the need to support children when I could.

Thanks, Mister, she said as she ran away. Gabrielle, come on let’s go. My mother will be here to pick us up soon.

I looked up to see a troop of girls sporting aqua-blue T-shirts with Friar Warriors embroidered on the front. I counted eight of them as they ran like tiny angels, assembling by the entrance, seeming to look for whoever was to transport them to their next destination. But the ruby-faced girl looked in a different direction as she shouted for Gabrielle again. The shouts reverberated against the angles creating hollow echoes throughout the foyer.

I didn’t think much of the girl yelling at first but the second call was loud and shrill. I scanned the room to see if other patrons noticed the ruby-faced girl yelling as if she warned of a fire but no one did. The entire foyer was quiet except for her shouts for Gabrielle but no one seemed to care except me.

Gabrielle Toms, she said again. The name still didn’t register in my overheated brain.

Staring in the same direction as the girl, I heard her yell again and then another young girl came running from the Heroes of the Wild West exhibit. She skipped and bounced toward the entranceway just like …and then it hit me hard like a blow to the gut, and I was down on my knees. She looked like my Bre. It was like being transported back to Harmony when the resilient girl I called my best friend still laughed out loud.

Her path to the door led her in front of me. Gabrielle, I said, mustering up some breath and managing a smile. Are you selling season passes also?

How’d you know my name? She asked with her head tilted to the right. I seemed to remember that my Bre tilted her head to the left. But that was the only difference, the bright eyes, the flowing hair, bronze completion, the button nose that flared up ever so slightly, were all the same.

I heard your friend call your name. I bought a season pass from her and then realized I needed another for my friend. Could you sell me one?

Sure, that’ll make seven I’ve sold today. I’m going to be sure to win the camera at this rate, a twelve mega-pixel digital.

I could use that camera myself, I said with a chuckle as I reached into my pocket for the money. I pulled out a five dollar bill, some lent, and receipt from the Hallmark card shop. I’m sorry. I guess this isn’t going to cut it. I smiled at the girl and I showed her the contents of my hand.

That’s all right. We’re going to be here all week, she said.

Okay then, I’ll buy one tomorrow.

Gabrielle, come on. My and Michelle’s mom are waiting out here, The ruby-faced girl said.

Gabrielle turned to run toward the door and then stopped. You’ve got to buy it from me though. Promise?

I nodded and then she turned and ran. I watched little Gabrielle until she disappeared through the door as if she was an aberration and I was on a desert island. She was here and now she was gone. I thought to run after her, scared that I’d been granted one last chance to see my friend again by the same unyielding power that had hounded me for the past fifteen years.

I inched backwards until my back was flat against the wall. I imagined how my face would have looked if anyone had paid attention to me. The disbelief and confusion would be clear as if those words were written on my face. I slid down the wall and sat exhausted. I focused on the spot where Gabrielle Toms stood in front of me, still thirteen years old — time had stood still for her. Then, I closed my eyes and thought to myself — like a shadow from the grave.

CHAPTER 2

Hours later after a shower and a change of clothes, I stood in an airport waiting area looking for Jordan, who had yet to arrive. I took a seat between a snoring, bald man and a crying child piecing together a broken transformer. I needed the rest, not for my body but for my mind. As I suspected Mac threw a tantrum when he found out I had lost his pictures. Apparently, he was more afraid of Gloria Chesterfield’s wrath than he was of mine. Maybe I was losing my touch. And while I ran wind sprints with Greg Chesterfield, Mac kept his detective from being arrested. Seems the guy’s gruff Jersey manner scared one of the receptionists he was attempting to milk for information. When a state congressman went to her rescue, Ragusa threatened to dunk his ‘overly grown’ head in a wastebasket, which prompted a call to the police. Mac was able to straighten things out, but we still had no more information than yesterday.

Jordan, my girlfriend of six years, appeared from nowhere. Hey, baby, she said, wrapping her arms around my neck. Sorry, I’m late. You miss me?

I took her hand with a sense of urgency; I hadn’t seen her in two days. Always. I was just hoping that you hadn’t needed to stay in Miami but I guess your meeting wrapped up on time. I sought to keep the focus of the conversation on Jordan and away from my demons. She knew about my nightmares and insomnia, which worried her, so I had no intention of telling about seeing what I thought to be Bre’s ghost.

The show has almost enlisted all the advertisers for the upcoming season. One more trip tomorrow evening to New York and we’ll be done. She smelled sweet like peaches as we embraced. When I previewed some of the new formats and fashion segments they went wild. Plus, we’ve got a big event coming up this summer, a European model extravaganza. Some of the biggest names you’ve never heard of will be there. Maybe I’ll get some time in front of the camera this season. That’s what I’m hoping for, anyway.

Your producers would be idiots not to put you in front of the camera. You’d raise the show’s ratings ten percentage points all by yourself. I finished my praise with a kiss on the cheek.

Stop playing, she said.

No, I’m serious. Live In Atlanta could not do any better than putting you in front of the camera. But then again, we wouldn’t be able to have a conversation like this in the middle of the airport without guys hounding you for an autograph.

She laughed at me. Come, ghostface. Let’s go home. I need my beauty sleep.

Ghostface was Jordan’s nickname for me. She told me it was because of my tendency to chase after the spooks and scoundrels that invade our city and wreak havoc.

As I drove through