Truth You're Told , livre ebook

Ecw Press - J. Clark Michael

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186 pages

English

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'People die. Secrets don t. Sam Hutchings was looking for a writing muse. She hoped that the family cabin at Bird Lake would spark her keyboard, a fire that had been smothered by self-loathing, cheap wine, and her daughter Meg s summer vacation. An innocent stroll down memory lane begins to unravel the story Sam had heard about her father: What did he do for a living? How did he actually die? Those who know the truth are nearer than she imagines, and protecting their secrets is worth killing for. As the old family stories begin to disintegrate, can Sam and Meg figure out the actual story? And can they uncover the dangerous plot by ex-U.S. military men before it s too late?'

Informations

Publié par	Ecw Press
Date de parution	02 novembre 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781773057446
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0400€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Truth You’re Told A Crime Novel
Michael J. Clark

Contents Dedication 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 Acknowledgements About the Author Copyright

Dedication
For Mom and Dad, and the gift of lake life.

Chapter One
May 20, 1967
Somewhere near the Manitoba-Ontario border
The pliers were worn out, just like everything else in the three-year-old Plymouth. Constable Jarrod Mulaney slipped, cursed, then cursed some more at the situation in front of him, a worn-out tripod stand for the radar array. The teeth in the pliers’ rusty jaws were worn to the nub. The slip joint slop rivalled that of the worst junk-drawer tools. Two of the tripod’s legs were seized in place, thankfully at the regulation height. The third leg slopped in and out like a well-used trombone. The eye bolt collar meant to secure it had reached the end of its cross-threading days.
The Plymouth was still presentable, with black where there should be black, white where there should be white, and cherry red on top. Mulaney knew better: Unit Four was the Kenora detachment shitbox, a rookie car if there ever was one. The driver’s side of the bench seat had been bent out of shape by the beefier members, sitting a good three inches back from the seldom-used passenger side. The seat springs couldn’t be seen, though Mulaney could easily pinpoint their respective pressure points of torture, especially after the third hour of his tour. The brakes. The brakes! Everyone warned him that they would pull during hard stops, they just failed to mention that they would switch the side of the car they pulled to without warning. Mulaney had started to avoid U-turn pursuits because of them.
Mulaney knew that this was standard rookie fare, things that he had been warned about at the Ontario Provincial Police Academy. He had been with the Kenora detachment since March. His home address in the mill and tourist town still read as the Kenricia Hotel. There was bunk space available at the detachment if you didn’t mind moving a few dozen boxes off the musty beds. The living quarters made sense for a smaller outpost, like Ignace or Vermilion Bay. The only time the boxes were shuffled was when a member was having trouble at home or avoiding trouble at home. Mulaney had yet to find the one that he might eventually have trouble with. The night girl at the Kenricia seemed pleasant enough, a stormy brunette with hazel eyes and small-town hips. On a scale of one to ten, she’d score a solid seven among the stiff competition back home in Toronto and could pass for an eight, maybe eight and a half in Sunset Country. That would change when the summer girls showed up, especially the ones from Winnipeg.
The tripod continued to curtsy in front of the constable. Of all weekends, the May Long deserved better. There would be little interest in honouring Queen Victoria and far more interest in getting to a cabin or campsite during daylight hours. There was nothing worse than having to unload a long weekend’s supply of Labatt’s, hamburger buns, and lawn darts down a slippery staircase of moss and timbers in the dark. Something would get dropped, usually the beer, or worse: the Crown Royal. It had happened enough that most cabin dwellers were keeping their speed at a steady ten over, twenty over if the driver had sprung for the big engine on the family car. These were some of the easiest pickings that any speed cop could have if the tripod weren’t aiming the radar beam into the ditch.
Mulaney went to the open trunk. He rummaged through the various bags and boxes, deciding on something that he knew he shouldn’t: the thick bandage tape in the first aid kit. He hoped that he could get through his tour without using it, though the morning briefing had said otherwise. The sergeant had passed out colour glossies of previous May Longs, the blood-red aftermath of speeding cars taking on the unforgiving rock cuts. Mulaney kept his bacon and eggs below decks, though just barely. He couldn’t argue with the stats—someone was going to die on Highway 17 this weekend, probably more than one. The ones on the edge would be needing that tape.
The afternoon sun shone hard on the constable’s shoulders. The Plymouth hid in the shade, which gave Mulaney a welcome relief from a day that had punched into the low eighties. Plenty of campers and cottagers would take that warmth as the green light for a dip off the dock, only to find out far too late that the water still retained the chill of the recent ice melt. The screams heard upon splashdown during the May Long could rival the haunting call of the common loon.
Mulaney checked the hands of his new Timex, a graduation and twenty-first birthday gift from his parents. It was almost four. The speeders would start to throttle up closer to five. He fished his lunch box out of the back seat. He popped the cap off his warm Pepsi using the edge of the Plymouth’s rain gutter. The sandwich was ham and cheese, fetched for him by the seven at the Kenricia. She had thrown in a brownie wrapped in wax paper, home baked, and not on the menu. Mulaney took a bite of the sweet. He smiled as he chewed, adjusting the baker’s score to a solid Kenora nine. Whoever the missus would be, she had to know how to bake.
“Base to four, base to four. Are you receiving me? Over.”
Mulaney looked at the antenna on the Plymouth. He smiled. An antenna that big could probably chat with Wally Schirra. He had chosen the highest radio point available on Highway 17. The call was hi-fi crisp, no buzz, no crackle. He reached in through the open passenger window for the mic. “Four to base, four to base, receiving you loud and clear, over.”
“Base to four, base to four. Are you receiving me? Over.”
Stupid rookie shitbox. Mulaney checked the mic connection on the two-way. The lights were strong on the Motorola unit, a new battery under the hood for juice. He grabbed the antenna, hoping that his frame would somehow enhance the signal, the way it did on the TV set in his hotel room. He clicked the mic. “This is four, am receiving this and previous transmission loud and clear, over.”
The third answer from the dispatcher was staticky and garbled. It also sounded very familiar. The words that did get through sounded like a repeat of the first two requests. They can’t hear me , Mulaney thought. He repeated his receipt. The response was pure, unadulterated static. Without warning, the static turned into a high-pitched squeal. Mulaney dropped the mic and his Pepsi. The bottle shattered on the edge of a large rock poking through the gravel. He tried to reach the volume control on the two-way, but the squeal kept him at bay. He held his hands over his ears and crouched next to the OPP lettering on the door. It stopped ten seconds later, and a low hum took its place. At first, the hum seemed to be coming from the two-way, then it started to waver, moving from the left to the right, a sound that Mulaney had heard before, on a stereo demonstration record that came with his parents’ hi-fi. The sound confused him. How could he be hearing a stereo effect on a mono speaker?
Mulaney looked up above the canopy of the turkey trail, towards the source of the sound. He blinked. He blinked again, hard, hoping that punctuating the action would erase what he was seeing. It didn’t. He kept an eye on the thing as he moved back to the open window. He grabbed his ticket book from the dashboard. He used his pencil to sketch what no one would believe, unless the thing decided to pay a visit to Kenora harbour during the May Long fireworks display. Keeping the object in view and sketching it proved more difficult than he had thought. His eyes dipped down to the page to add the finishing touches. He smiled, a panicked smile, but a smile nonetheless. He was still smiling when the sound ceased. He looked up at his subject. The thing was gone.
The two-way resumed its regularly scheduled squawk. “Base to four, base to four. Are you receiving me? Over.”
Mulaney grabbed the mic. “This is four. Go ahead, base. I am receiving you loud and clear. Over.”
“Four, are you experiencing a radio problem? Over.”
“Uh, that’s a negative, base, am receiving you loud and clear. Over.”
There were a few seconds of silence. The announcer asked a question.
“Four, are you . . . uh, seeing anything unusual ? Over.”
Mulaney wanted to shout that he had. He felt the excitement in hi