Authors: Richard Satterlie
Agnes Hahn
SOMETHING BAD:
“
SOMETHING BAD
has come back to Boyston is an enticing thriller that will have the audience pondering how Thibideaux accomplishes his deeds and just who is the Organization that does not allow direct murder, but accepts indirect homicides. The story line is fast-paced with fascinating subplots like Gabe’s attraction to the married pregnant Deena Lee and the trio investigating Thibideaux. Although the Organization is not explained much beyond some field rules for its “recruiters”, fans will appreciate Richard Satterlie’s entertaining suspense filled tale.”
—Harriet Klausner
“There is a disturbing feeling underlying this entire story—an all-pervasive creepy atmosphere … one that creates a very palpable sense of dread. Its terror is one that is likely to stay with you long after you have finished reading.”
—Steve Mazey, The Eternal Night
For Alison, Jake, Erin, and Tricia,
and to my brothers, Dave and Bob.
Published 2008 by Medallion Press, Inc.
The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO
is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 2008 by Richard Satterlie
Cover Model: Sara Mock
Cover Illustration by Adam Mock
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro
ISBN# 978-1-605-42820-8
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
Thanks to Tricia and Alison for their critical reading of the story in its various drafts, and to Stacy M. for a critical read of the final version. Helen and Kerry of Medallion Press have been fantastic throughout the editing and production process. Finally I’d like to thank everyone at the Absolute Write Water Cooler for their help and encouragement, including Uncle Jim, Ray, Kevin, William, Teddy, Rob (both of you), and all of the other guys; Trish, Maryn, Kathy, Sass, Cath, Jay, Elaine, Kristie, and all of the other girls.
Previous accolades for Richard Satterlie’s
SOMETHING BAD:
A Special Presentation of Richard Satterlie’s
SOMETHING BAD
AGNES HAHN IS A DONUT IN A SCONE WORLD.
The entry under her photograph in the high school yearbook was funny when the ink from her classmates’ signatures was still fresh. But as the pages yellowed, the lines lost their humor.
Agnes relaxed and her shoulders slumped with an exhalation. Even when Gert and Ella were still at home, something had always seemed to be missing, like there was a hole in her life. Not the kind of hole a mate or a best friend could fill, but one that was more visceral, more emotional. Yet something seemed tangible in the void. Something around its edges provided random reminders of her vacuity. It had always been subtle, like there was someone she should consult every time she had to make a decision—an inner voice that would provide an objective opinion.
Today, it was strong.
Agnes had been aware of the voice since the day she went to live with her great-aunts. In fact, she couldn’t remember much else before that time. Nothing of her mother or her father. Only the voice. But even then it was capricious, stirring occasional feelings of uneasiness.
It wasn’t there to argue when she decided to go back to work the day after Gert’s funeral. She didn’t have to convince it that it wasn’t too soon, that the animals needed her—the plain ones, the damaged ones, the mean ones, the ones no one wanted to adopt. They all needed her. Not like at home where no one needed her anymore.
Agnes cinched her belt a hole tighter. The jeans hadn’t shrunk as much as she’d thought they would. She was wrong again, keeping her string alive—always assuming shrinkage would produce the perfect fit.
She thrust her arm into the flannel shirt, pushed her other arm into place, and paused as the soft fabric surrounded her. Unbuttoned, the shirttails fell to the middle of each thigh. A medium when a small would do. Cotton head-to-toe, in-to-out. Even the bra. And they could be found without the wires. Cantilever brassieres projected the wrong impression—an exaggerated importance of body parts that somehow had attained a cult status.
Her hands threaded each button through its buttonhole, upward, all the way to the lapels. Others seldom used the final button. Why put one there if it wasn’t intended to be fastened? Like all things in her life, the top button had a purpose.
The weather report blared from the cheap speaker of the bedside clock radio, and Agnes flicked the switch to off as she hurried past. The station broadcast was from Santa Rosa, but the weather this far up the coast was considerably different. The best way to judge was to open the garage door and take a deep breath.
The Honda hummed along Reese Drive without complaint, living up to its rating in the
Consumer Guide.
Agnes settled into the cool fabric and let her mind run ahead. What was the challenge today? Two more strays brought in? Maybe three? One adoption if luck was working? The real challenge was to find something interesting to say to her co-workers, to stay in a conversation for more than one unscripted turn.
A murmur pulled Agnes’s foot from the gas pedal. She swung her head left, then right. What was it? It sounded like a muffled moan. She slid her foot back to the accelerator. Her system of mental Post-it notes usually didn’t kick in until after morning tea.
A left turn onto the coastal highway and she buzzed her window down all the way. The morning chill invaded the car in company with the smell of the ocean. The short jog to the animal shelter turnoff, south of Mendocino, had always invigorated her. She loved the Pacific Ocean, the beauty of the rugged shoreline, the power in the waves that scoured the beaches of all but the largest grains of sand. But lately, even this part of the drive had turned mundane, as if something had tamed the water, turning the brassy surf zone into the humdrum stretches of sand found in the southern part of the state. Baggy. Cotton. No wires.
The car looped into the parking lot like it had a homing device, past the packed column of employee cars, to the last space in the empty second row. It was her spot, by squatter’s rights. She glanced at the other cars in her side mirror. Every morning her co-workers filled the narrow slips, jockeying for the one closest to the building, presumably in the hopes of saving a calorie. And their cars bore the scars of the thrift—their sides were chipped and wrinkled with door dings. It reminded her of the huge SUVs that would run three laps around the Wal-Mart parking lot, waiting to squeeze into tight spaces on the near side of the cart-return corrals.
She closed her window, flipped off the ignition, and pulled out the key.
It’s time.
Agnes spun around, swinging her knees onto the seat. Who said that? No one was in back; no one else was in the car. All windows were up, doors locked. But she had heard a voice.
She turned in the seat and sat still for a moment, but the only sound was her heart, hammering deep in her chest. The dashboard clock turned over to eight, and the simultaneous flash of three changing numbers caught her eye. Three minutes. That’s how far she’d set all of her timepieces ahead of the punch clock in the shelter.
She swiveled out of the car and looked around the parking lot. No one was near. It must have been her imagination. With a deep breath, she checked the top button that pulled her lapels tight to her neck. Another glance and she walked toward the shelter.
A police car waited near the doors, but that wasn’t unusual. The police were her heroes. Around here, they pursued those who abused animals with the same fervor as those who abused other humans or drugs or property. They brought in the lost and the wounded. They cared.
She picked up her pace as she pushed the door open and slipped into the tile and glossy-paint reception room. Janie, the receptionist, didn’t return her greeting.
Two of her heroes stood near the far side of the front counter. Officer Steven Wilson approached, followed by Officer Loreen Didier.
Agnes didn’t smile a lot, but she always smiled for the police. “Good morning, Officer Wilson. Bring in another stray for us?”
Her smile wasn’t returned. The officers positioned themselves on either side of her.
“Miss Hahn, please put your hands on the counter,” Wilson said.
Agnes looked up. Janie’s eyes were large, her lips tight.
“Miss Hahn?” Didier said.
Agnes squinted at Janie. “What’s going on?”
“Put your hands on the counter. Now.”
Each officer grabbed a wrist and forced Agnes’s hands onto the high counter of the reception desk.
Agnes let out a muffled whine. “Why—?”
The cuffs clicked around her left wrist, pinching her skin. She wanted to rub the pressure away, but couldn’t. Wilson bent her left arm around behind her back and forced her forward, into the counter.
