Silent Sentinels: The Sequel to the Mourning Doves

By Patricia Huff

Silent Sentinels is the long awaited sequel to The Mourning Doves. Like Doves, Silent Sentinels involves murder, kidnapping, blackmail, and a deep and abiding love affair. Jason Borseau, the co-owner of KCOY Radio Station in Yuma, Arizona, is now the co-owner and CEO of KSOL-TV in Phoenix, where the story begins. Jason is married to Kathryn Whittaker, the love of his life.

The year is 1961. A serial killer is targeting the west side of Phoenix, Arizona. Five young women, alleged prostitutes, all minorities, have gone missing, their bodies discovered in the desert, ravaged by the killer and savaged by wild animals. Now, another girl has disappeared.

Jason Borseaus good friend Christian Grayson, a handsome, light-skinned Negro and Pulitzer Prizewinning investigator, has worked for Jason for four years. For some time, Christian has had a hunch that something isnt right about the way the City is doing business. Jason has doubts, but over the years, hes learned to trust his colleagues instincts. Jason instructs Christian to go ahead, and look into it, but urges him to tread softly through the Citys hallowed halls.

Meanwhile, the Ladies of the Night Murders investigation is going nowhere. Christian is certain its not a priority with the police, because the victims are minorities, and prostitutes. Hes determined to unmask the killer. Unfortunately, he becomes the target. When Christian is found unconscious and badly beaten on the street in front of Jasons estate, Jason calls his old friend, Alan Sheffield, Arizonas Attorney General, the States, Top Cop. Together they begin an investigation that will expose a conspiracy that runs deeper than anyone could have imagined, leading them into the darkest regions of human behavior.

This book is enthralling in its emotional aspects, brilliant in its love story, an extremely thrilling mystery. Silent Sentinels is a whodunit that keeps you guessing until the very end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504971171

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© 2016 Patricia Huff. All rights reserved.

Title page ‘Cover Illustration by Avery Liell-Kok’

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/25/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5049-7127-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-7117-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015921370

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Contents

Acknowledgement

Readers Praise The Mourning Doves

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-one

Chapter Fifty-two

Chapter Fifty-three

Chapter Fifty-four

Chapter Fifty-five

Chapter Fifty-six

Chapter Fifty-seven

Chapter Fifty-eight

Chapter Fifty-nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-one

Chapter Sixty-two

Chapter Sixty-three

Chapter Sixty-four

Chapter Sixty-five

Chapter Sixty-six

Epilogue

About the Author

Acknowledgement

M any thanks to my family and friends for their contributions to Silent Sentinels, with special appreciatio n to:

Joseph P. Hougnon, Jr. for his help with About the Book, and assistance in meeting the specs for my photograph. Gina Marie Hougnon Schlageter - - photographer, proof reader and computer guru.

Liz Mueller, who read the Silent Sentinels’ manuscript and gave me positive feedback. Liz is an inveterate reader; I knew I could trust her judgment.

Readers Praise The

Mourning Doves

A murder. A kidnapping. A love that time cannot kill. And killers who try again and again to rip the lovers apart forever. This book is enthralling in its emotional aspects, brilliant in its love story, an extremely thrilling mystery. This novel is a whodunit that keeps you guessing until the very end. Great! Highly recommended. The Romance Studio’s (5-hearts) review. By: Sarah Sawyer, Director

To me, The Mourning Doves is a sensitive, informed, tender reflection of relationships between men in combat, children and children, and children and their parents. I worried about Jason’s combat experience, his unresolved PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder), his delayed reaction. His initial interaction with Kathryn is so tender and moving. I also found myself feeling the loss of Ann (Jeffreys) as another tragedy when Jason returned to England after the tragedies he had (already) endured. His combat experience also confirmed my belief that combat, be it air, land, or sea has the same effect on the human beings involved, regardless of which war it is, at any time in human history, or which weapons of destruction are used. On the eighth day, man created war. Your statement is genius. The Mourning Doves is an intense roller coaster ride throughout. A great story. Have you tried to get it to a screenwriter? It would be a great movie.

Bob Janes, Elk Grove, California

The Mourning Doves is wonderful! I saved the last few chapters for two days, until I couldn’t stand it anymore, because I didn’t want it to end. And what an ending, I would never have guessed. It’s truly one of the best books I’ve ever read, and I’ve read a lot of books! I loved it!

Bev Taber, Stockton, CA

The Mourning Doves is what I call real entertainment, a type of writing that Graham Green used to do when he wrote for pleasure. One of the pleasures of relationships is that it broadens us to pick up on others’ characters, mindsets, mental tones, feelings and emotions. Your characters reflect this. For example: Kathryn’s: I gave up the spiritual dimension of my life to put more energy into material things, expressed as: I traded Him in for worldly pursuits, seems just right for a person her age. She doesn’t realize the all-encompassing nature of the Divine yet. Writing the characters from the inside out makes the work come to life. Also, kudos for the even-handed presentations of Christianity and the Native American Religions.

Travers Huff, Hollywood, CA

I couldn’t contain my enthusiasm until I’d finished your wonderful book, to tell you how much I’m enjoying it. At first glance, I thought, My god, how could this chick have so much to say about one bird species? The farther I get into it, I’m bound up by the story to the extent that I forget I’m reading a novel and find myself transported to the scene you’re describing. This, to me, is the mark of true literary genius.

Bill Lamkin, Modesto, CA

I started The Mourning Doves last Friday. It’s now Monday, and I’m on page 503, NOT wanting to get to the last page. I can’t wait for your second book.

Sue Kelly, Maui, Hawaii

I am LOVING your novel!!!! Cannot put it down. It may be my excuse for not getting Christmas cards out this year. You paint beautiful pictures in my mind’s eye.

Ellie Anderson, Moscow, Idaho

Now, dear reader, the stage is set.

Turn the page to immerse yourself in

Trish Huff’s latest Romance/Suspense Novel …

The Silent Sentinels

Confronted by what was too

horrifying to conceive,

Civilization has agonized for generations,

In private hells of its own design …

PH

Prologue

Trepskýa Concentration Camp

Poland 1944

I n the distance, the snow-capped mountains speared sharply into the brilliant blue sky. Puffy white clouds drifted by, momentarily softening the jagged peaks. An army of majestic trees marched up the steep terrain, stopping short of the sheer cliffs between forest and sky. Nearby, pine and incense cedar embraced a stream-fed lake. In the grassy meadows, wild flowers in gay shades of pink, purple, and gold lifted their faces to the sun. The heady fragrance wafted across the va lley.

In the camp, the sweet scent warred with the stench of rotting flesh, urine and feces, expelled at the moment of violent death. The final humiliation.

An icy wind slapped the girl’s thin sweater and seeped beneath to chill her body. The prisoners, with a few spoonfuls of thin gruel in their shrunken bellies, were bent over the never-ending task of digging mass graves. All too soon, their lifeless bodies would be entombed there.

When the chaos erupted, she was working at the far end of the trench, daydreaming about how it would feel to run barefoot through the sea of grass beyond the razor-sharp fencing, imagining what it would be like to pick a bouquet of the bright flowers.

It took a while for the disquieting hum to penetrate her thoughts. The sound, like that of bees swarming, quickly escalated into frantic screams. She circled around the other prisoners and slipped through the panic-stricken throng.

Colonel Berndt raised the spade and brought it down. Blood spattered his face and jacket and dripped off his sharply creased trousers. Body parts were strewn at his feet, a headless torso lay twitching on the ground.

Her hands flew to cover her eyes. Monster, evil monster. She fell to her knees and rocked there.

Every shocked eye, prisoners and captors alike, stared at her. When she raised her head, the Major was looming over her, glaring down. He grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and yanked her to her feet.

Pitching the spade aside, the Colonel shrieked, Shoot her!

The Major unsnapped the holster at his side and retrieved his Lugar P-08. A contemptuous smile nudged the corners of his mouth, his piercing dark eyes intent upon the commanding officer’s face.

I’ll take care of it, he said quietly.

The Colonel stepped back, shying away from the threat stamped on the officer’s face. Every soldier in the camp feared the Major. Colonel Berndt was no exception. Headquarters had rejected the Colonel’s numerous requests to transfer the Major. But scuttlebutt from Berlin hinted at the Fuehrer’s increasing paranoia. Berndt was convinced that the Major was a Gestapo Agent sent by the Fuehrer to spy on him.

The Major grabbed the girl’s wrist and dragged her along behind him. She stumbled, lost her balance and pitched forward. The Major ignored her plight, though she was sure he knew the gravel along the path was tearing the flesh on her arm and legs.

It wasn’t the first time the Major had defied the camp Commandant. He had interceded on her behalf before. Even so, she thought she might be better off dead than alive. A bullet in the back of her head would put an end to the torture she had endured, for the most part at the hands of the Major.

Even when he scowled, as he was now, she wondered how anyone as brutal as he could be would have such a serenely handsome face. He was tall and lean and strong. His every move spoke to power. Large, luminous dark eyes, reminded her of a fallen angel painting she’d seen at the museum in Warsaw.

When the Major struck a match to light his cigarette, fear constricted her chest. She drew a ragged breath and held it, willing herself not to whimper or cry out. When the others screamed and begged for mercy, the Major had forced her to watch as he slaughtered them. If she closed her eyes or turned her head, he threatened her with the same fate. Over time, six young women had died. She hadn’t known why they were expendable and she was not, until the Major said the women were gifts for her, to prove how much he cared.

She grasped the edges of the operating table, trying to get beyond herself, to spin her mind away from what he would do to her. She closed her eyes to shut out the madness that was consuming his face. He took great care in burning her, carefully aiming the light, studying, sometimes for many minutes, before he took a drag on the cigarette and flicked the ashes to the floor.

Part One

Chapter One

Summer, 1961

Phoenix, Arizona

J ason Borseau, co-owner and CEO of KSOL-TV, slid a stack of documents to one side and flipped the switch on the inte rcom.

Yes, Mr. Borseau, his secretary, Mary Robards, responded.

Please give Tom Dixon a call. Tell him I’m ready to discuss the contracts he wanted me to review. See if seven-thirty Friday morning is acceptable. We’ll have to meet in the legal department’s conference room. Casey has reserved ours, he added, referring to his partner, Casey Matson.

I’ll check with Mr. Dixon right away.

If that isn’t convenient, ask him what will work for him, and let me know.

Yes, sir.

The late afternoon sun slanted through the shutters behind his desk and scudded across the pale gray carpet. Jason leaned back in his plush leather chair, mentally checking off the tasks he’d set for himself that morning. He thought another hour should do it. Wonder of wonders, he might get home before dark.

Following a faint knock on the door, Christian Grayson opened it a crack, and peered in. Hi, boss, can you spare a few minutes?

Of course, come in, Jason responded.

Christian paused to admire the flowers in cut-crystal vases—a potpourri of pink rosebuds, lilacs, and bridal wreath, noting the way they gave substance to the glass-topped tables. Nice, he said, smiling at his boss.

They’re Kathyn’s contribution to ‘my sterile office’. Jason pointed to a chair in front of his desk.

Christian crossed the room and sank into a butter-soft leather chair. How is the family?

Couldn’t be better, Jason responded. How about seeing for yourself? Have lunch with us this weekend. Jason flipped the pages of his calendar. Make that next weekend.

With bells on.

Great, we’ll expect you at eleven or so. Jason circled his desk, eased a hip on one corner, and leaned toward KSOL’s investigative reporter. What’s up?

Christian settled deeper into the down-filled chair. The City Council assignment.

Jason grinned. Sorry to have saddled you with that, but summer vacations put us in a bind. I know how you feel though. I did time in that ho-hum arena. Just keep in mind that it’s temporary.

Ho hum? Maybe not. Christian frowned. The City has rules and regs above and beyond those of private enterprise. Right?

All public agencies do. Coffee?

Sure. Christian rose and followed Jason to the bar.

Aside from the fact that I’m always glad to see you, I needed a break. Jason’s hands swept across his black hair threaded with silver. The salt and pepper effect added a distinguished quality to his movie-star good looks, enhancing the strong angles and planes of his face. In addition to his sculpted features, Jason had a charismatic grin, sky blue eyes, and a trim, six-foot-three frame.

I’ve spent the entire day analyzing one proposed contract. Anyone with an ounce of brains could’ve reduced the language to ten pages, max. He nodded at the documents on his desk. We used to finalize agreements with a handshake. Now, it’s all about covering the station’s ass to avoid lawsuits. Have you noticed how the folks in our legal department look like they’re sucking lemons.

Christian laughed. Now that you mention it.

Black, right?

Yes, thanks.

Jason handed the mug to his ace reporter, then stirred a generous dollop of cream into his coffee.

After settling himself in the chair again, Christian said, Jace, I have questions about how the City does business.

What kind of business and with whom?

Business in general. You know?

No, Christian, I don’t know. I just hope this is idle curiosity.

Christian shrugged. Pretty much.

Jason returned to his perch on the desk and sipped his coffee. Pretty much?

Oh, you know how it is: When I get an itch I have to scratch it.

Jason’s brows drew together. What bit you this time?

Damned if I know, boss, it’s a gut feeling.

We’re talking about the Phoenix hierarchy, so you need to be more explicit.

If I knew what is bugging me, I’d tell you. I just want to nose around a little.

Several thoughts ran through Jason’s mind as he studied this young, handsome Negro from Georgia. To get a college education and to compete in a white world, especially in the South, must have taken unbelievable commitment and perseverance. Jason admired Christian, his intelligence, his honesty and integrity. Unlike some of his colleagues, envy didn’t play a part in Christian’s character. As such, he’d earned the fellowship and respect of his peers—a singular feat in the broadcasting business, where narcissistic egos were the rule rather than the exception. Job-wise, Christian was like a hunter tracking his quarry. He burrowed beneath the surface of every story, instinctively separating fact from fiction—a talent that often eluded other reporters.

You’d like me to leave it alone.

"No, I just don’t want you stirring up a hornet’s nest needlessly. I’ll give you the go-ahead on one condition: You will tiptoe ever so lightly through the City’s hallowed halls. Do not stir up the powers-that-be, unless it’s absolutely necessary. With your reputation, if you show up asking questions, even if they’re as innocent as newborn babes, the staff will sweat bullets, to say nothing of the angst you’ll create among the politicians. When I asked you to cover the Council meetings, I wondered if the City fathers would begin looking over their shoulders."

It boggles my mind to think I’m that intimidating.

Christian, think about it. You were awarded the Pulitzer for exposing an arm of Carlo Gambino’s crime syndicate. If it weren’t for you, the mob would have taken over the electronics industry here. You’re a celebrity, KSOL’s super sleuth. However, in this instance, there’s a down-side: your reputation precedes you.

Christian laughed. Thanks for the compliment. I think.

Jason took a swallow of coffee and set the mug beside the files on his desk. Anything else?

The Ladies of the Night Murders.

Okay. Jason drew out the word.

The cops are nowhere with the investigation. Five young women are dead, alleged prostitutes, all minorities so far—Mexicans, Negroes, Orientals. Last weekend another girl went missing, a white girl, according to the intel I’ve picked up on the street. Maybe she left the City of her own volition. Maybe not. If I’m lucky, my main snitch may’ve seen or heard something. It’ll take a few bucks to grease her palm, but I’d like to give it a shot.

The Chief’s been quoted as saying ‘there isn’t a shred of physical evidence.’ Surely he knows more than he’s releasing to the media, Jason said, referring to Police Chief, Morton Salinger. He rose and circled his desk. How long will you be in the field?

I’m not sure, a few days, more or less. I’ll keep in touch.

Every day.

Like I always do. Christian set the mug on the bar.

Okay, go get the bad guys. Christian, take care of yourself.

Count on it, boss.

C hristian bolted into the elevator, nearly colliding with Jason’s par tner.

Casey Matson braced himself. Whoa, big fella!

Jeeze, I’m sorry. Christian stepped aside to let him pass.

A grin split Casey’s angular features. You look like a man with a mission.

Christian nodded. How about you? I hear you’re running for the State Assembly.

You heard right.

Great. See y’a, Christian said as the door slid shut. When it opened, he hurried along the hallway to the accounting department. He glanced around, looking for KSOL’s controller, Caroline Adams Keene. At last, by standing on tiptoe, he spotted her next to a filing cabinet that was taller than she was.

Hi, Caroline. How about a cash advance?

As she tipped her head from side to side, Caroline’s blonde, corkscrew curls danced. How much? A million, two?

A hundred should do it.

"And, it would be?"

I may have to grease my snitch’s palm.

For a hundred bucks, you can grease both of my palms, the soles of my feet—

Caroline! he said, prancing like a horse at the starting gate.

Chuckling at Christian’s impatience, Caroline unlocked the petty cash drawer, grabbed two fifty-dollar-bills, and handed them to him. Go, I’ll sign the slip.

Thanks, pal. He tucked the bills into the front pocket of his jeans and took off.

A whirlwind just swept through my office, Caroline muttered to herself.

Chapter Two

A s he vaulted the concrete steps, Christian wondered why government buildings seemed to have so many steps. Maybe to elevate what Jason called the powers-that-be above the ma sses.

On the fly, Christian waved at Marcie Fairfield, the Arizona State University student that worked part-time at the City’s information desk.

No you don’t, TV-man. Marcie wagged a finger at him. You have to sign in like everyone else.

Puleeze do it for me, Marcie. Running backwards to the elevator, he said, I’ll help you with your next speech.

Marcie flipped her long, blonde hair over her shoulders. Okay, Christian, it’s a deal. Wait, where are you going?

The City Manager’s office.

Paul Hewitt isn’t in today, Marcie shouted at Christian’s still moving figure.

It’s his secretary I need to see.

Okay, but don’t forget—

Christian burst through the door into the City Manager’s office. He smiled at Paul Hewitt’s secretary. Hi, Helen.

Helen Burgess glanced at the clock and back at Christian with a look that dared him to ask for anything at this hour. What do you want?

Christian grinned. I’m sorry to bother you so late in the day. He drew a deep breath and closed the door. I’ll appreciate it, if you’ll copy some agendas for me.

Helen grabbed a pencil and pulled a pad of forms from the top drawer of her desk. Which ones?

Christian shrugged an apology. All of them, for the past year.

The pencil went airborne. Do you know how much that will cost?

The grin on Christian’s face widened. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. This should cover it. Oh, don’t bother with the agendas for July or the first two meetings in August.

Christian, Mr. Hewitt isn’t in today, and I can’t do this without his authorization.

Actually, the agendas are a matter of public record. I guess I could call the station’s legal eagles.

Helen pushed her thick, horn-rimmed glasses up on the bridge of her nose. Never mind, but it’ll take a lot of time. Why don’t you pick them up on Thursday or Friday?

If you don’t mind, I’d rather wait.

Helen began to fidget, eyes darting to the door.

Christian’s smile froze. Jason was right. Hewitt’s secretary looked as if she wanted to make break for it. It’s just research, Helen. I didn’t mean to upset you.

She glowered at him. I’m not upset. Rising from her chair, she hurried to the file cabinet behind her desk.

My mistake, Christian said, as the hair on the back of his neck bristled.

Chapter Three

Wednesday, 3am

C hristian pushed away from his desk. Rising, he massaged his temples as he wandered aimlessly around his apartment. He paused to straighten the photo of his parents, recalling how he’d had to browbeat them into having it t aken.

"Yes, Helen, you were upset, but why? What am I missing?" he muttered as he strode to the kitchen to pour another cup of coffee—sludge, his mind amended as he grimaced at what looked like mud and set the cup aside. He opened the refrigerator, snagged a bottle of Chardonnay, popped the cork, and made his way to the hutch in the dining room. He grabbed a crystal goblet and tipped it back and forth to let the light from the chandelier lance through its diamond-cut facets.

His best friend, Jaclyn Devereaux, had given him a six-piece set for his twenty-third birthday, now more than four years ago. Being a recluse, Christian hadn’t used all of them, at least not at one time. Pouring as he walked, he smiled, recalling the first time they’d shared a bottle of wine at his place, a pricey Chenin Blanc. The label had hooked him. A light, dry vintage with a delicate bouquet, and a subtle, piquant spirit to tantalize the most discriminating palette. Who could pass that up? Without hesitating, he’d forked over the big bucks.

So much for impressing Jaclyn. You can’t be serious. She’d slanted a glance at him through eyes the color of aged whiskey. "It’s profane to drink fine wine from a plastic glass. The Vino gods will punish us."

For whatever reason, the ornate packaging did seem to enhance the flavor, the ambiance as well. Aside from being elegant, and he felt sure, expensive, he valued the gift, because it was from Jaclyn. And Christian valued Jaclyn.

If it weren’t so late, or so early, depending on one’s point of view—three, in the am—he’d call her, invite her to join him. As tempted as he was to pick up the phone, it would be unkind to awaken her at this hour. Jaclyn was an investigator for State Attorney General, Alan Sheffield. Her days were often longer and more arduous than Christian’s, and he seldom worked eight to five.

Christian had met Jaclyn poolside five years ago. Both had been new to the City, to Shady Creek Apartments, as well. She’d taken the chaise lounge next to his. After watching her wrestle with the cap on her suntan lotion, he’d offered to help. Once he’d popped the top, they’d chatted, and discovered they had something in common—their jobs. It had marked the beginning of a friendship that had flourished.

He’d known Jaclyn for three years before she told him scattered bits and pieces about her tragic past. She had survived the Holocaust in Europe. She had never talked about what she’d endured, only about the atrocities that had befallen other prisoners. As if she had been an observer. Christian felt sure there had been no observers, but he’d never questioned her.

In September, Jaclyn would celebrate her thirtieth birthday. It had become a tradition for them to spend their birthdays together. He’d take her to The Flame, a popular downtown restaurant, or the swanky Green Gables Inn. Her choice.

His brows drew as he thought about their outings. Whenever they entered a public place, Jaclyn always held back to scan the crowd. At first, he’d wondered if she felt uncomfortable being with him. Although the color of his