Highwayman, p.1
Highwayman, page 1
HIGHWAYMAN
A NOVEL
M.J. PRESTON
WildBluePress.com
HIGHWAYMAN published by:
WILDBLUE PRESS
P.O. Box 102440
Denver, Colorado 80250
Publisher Disclaimer: Any opinions, statements of fact or fiction, descriptions, dialogue, and citations found in this book were provided by the author, and are solely those of the author. The publisher makes no claim as to their veracity or accuracy, and assumes no liability for the content.
Copyright 2019 by M.J. Preston
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
WILDBLUE PRESS is registered at the U.S. Patent and Trademark Offices.
ISBN 978-1-948239-09-7 Trade Paperback
ISBN 978-1-948239-08-0 eBook
Interior Formatting by Elijah Toten
www.totencreative.com
Table of Contents
A Note From The Author
PART I
Prologue - The Reporter
Chapter 1 - Infamous
Chapter 2 - Out of the Ashes
Chapter 3 - Homeless Steve
Chapter 4 -The Experiments
Chapter 5 - The One-Eyed Man
Chapter 6 - Connecting the Dots
Chapter 7 - Rogue Messiah
Chapter 8 - Starfished
Chapter 9 - The Sound of Silence
Chapter 10 - The Fog Man
PART II
Chapter 11 - Norris
Chapter 12 -The Regulator
Chapter 13 - Highwayman’s Second Wave
Chapter 14 – Road Trip
Chapter 15 - Escape
Chapter 16 - Run for the River
Chapter 17 – The Fug Game
Chapter 18 – Maxwell
Chapter 19 – Gifts
Chapter 20 – Hot Brown
PART III
Chapter 21 – Dick 101
Chapter 22 – Into the Third Room
Chapter 23 – Car Trouble
Chapter 24 – Beating the Bushes
Chapter 25 – Cat Food Man
Chapter 26 – Devil’s Workshop
Chapter 27 – Lawyer Bob
Chapter 28 – MacDonald Triad
Chapter 29 – Three Acts
Epilogue
Notes
Afterword
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
This novel is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental; however, the author has taken the liberty of using historical characters, references and places to enhance the reader experience.
References to known and convicted criminals, along with political figures and places have been added to enhance the story and lend realism to the fictional tale contained in this story.
References to police departments or bureaus of investigation, including local, state and federal are a fictional account. This story does not reflect in any way on the organizations mentioned or their level of professionalism. This is a fictional tale as are the characters and events, any resemblance is again purely coincidental.
Any omission or error rests solely with the author.
In Memory of Duane Hillaby
This book was always for you, brother.
PART I
FLEDGLING KILL
“I always had a desire to inflict pain on others and to have others inflict pain on me. I always seemed to enjoy everything that hurt.”
— Albert Fish, The Gray Man
BOOK I
The following crimes occurred between
7 May, 2000 - 8 September, 2007
Prologue - The Reporter
17 May 2008
Louisville, KY
He’d been waiting for over two and a half hours. His back hurt, his pants were too tight, and his ass itched without mercy. It was hot, he needed a shower and, he reminded himself, he also needed to dump about eighty pounds.
You’re getting way too old for this shit, Ace, he thought. That was what he called himself in his private thoughts. Thoughts that were usually advisory. Like, Take it easy, Ace. Don’t let him bait you, Ace. And of course, the repetitious, You’re getting way too old for this shit, Ace.
Publicly, he never called himself Ace, too cliche for a reporter. It sounded like something out of a comic book. So he told people who might be uncomfortable with his real name to call him Harry. His real name was an old name, hardly used these days, but it was that real name that would be attached to his byline and emblazoned on his business card, and, he hoped, by the end of the year, on the cover of the book he was writing.
His real name was Horace Montillo.
How many police waiting rooms had he sat in? It had to be in the thousands by now. His start came as a crime beat reporter back in the late ‘70s working for the Atlanta Journal. His first big break had been covering the Atlanta Child Murders. That would be the beginning of his love affair with crime reporting. He didn’t want anything else, so he worked the crime beat his entire career. He’d been at all the majors: The Times, The Tribune, and even Huffington Post. He covered the underground police massacre at the famed Run-off-31 in Chicago, Illinois. He reported on Milwaukee Cannibal Jeffrey Dahmer, and even wrote an award-winning piece for Time Magazine called “Serial Murder in American Society.”
He didn’t have to be here. Technically, he wasn’t in the newspaper business anymore. He wasn’t even a reporter. Horace Montillo was the senior editor at Crime Scene Examiner, a throwback to the true crime magazines his mom used to leave lying around their apartment in Gary, Indiana. Sure, it wasn’t The Tribune or The Times, but it was crime beat, and best of all he was a quarter partner in the magazine. He didn’t have to be here for the piece he intended on writing, could have sent one of the twenty reporters they had on contract, but he didn’t. Because Horace missed the stink of a police station, and he longed to be away from his desk chasing down a story. And this story deserved chasing because it made his strained heart run like a twenty-something. It was also going to be the focus of that book he intended to finish.
So, he ignored the button of his pants—which dug into his belly—cutting the circulation in his hips and making his backache. He did his best to overlook the beads of sweat that trickled down between his butt cheeks and inflamed an itch that demanded to be scratched.
You gotta get your ass into a gym, Ace, and work off the lard before old man heart attack comes calling, he thought, but it would always be the day after tomorrow.
At least I quit the smokes.
True and he could always lose the eighty pounds he’d accumulated since giving up the darts. Cancer was the boogeyman; the big casino had killed seven people he’d known. Cancer couldn’t be run off on a treadmill or beat in a CrossFit competition. But he remembered what Doc Acheson told him. How he’d rather have cancer than a heart attack, because if you survived cancer, you carried on living, while a heart attack left you in fear for your remaining years.
Tomorrow I get my ass to the gym.
“Horace Montillo?”
He looked up and saw a tall, thin man standing over him. He had a mustache that had been trimmed in such a way that it almost looked as though it had been drawn with a pencil. He was holding the business card Montillo had given his lieutenant, shifting his gaze between the name and face.
“Yes.” He stood up to meet this tall drink of water and was still forced to look up to meet his eyes.
“Man, your parents must have hated you.” The detective grinned.
Montillo laughed. “Most folks call me Harry. Horace is my pen name.” He put out his hand.
“I’m Detective Perkins; my boss said you were looking for a bit of my time.” The man wore an earnest look; like he had better places to be. “I’m going out for a smoke, you can join me if you like, but I’m working a double that I have to get back to.”
Montillo glanced through the glass doors and out into the sweltering inertia. The daytime high was going to be 93 degrees, high even for Kentucky in mid-May. He guessed it was around 90 right now. It would have been so much nicer to sit down at a table, in an air-conditioned room, but that was the exception, not the rule.
What the hell did people have against air conditioning?
“You coming?” Perkins asked.
He smiled thinly and said, “Sure.”
“Okay then.” Perkins pulled a cigarette pack from his breast pocket and carried it between his index and middle finger as they marched to the entrance. “We’ll have to cross the street. The new chief of police is a reformed smoker, and that pretty much makes him a born-again motherfucker.”
“Okay, Detective.” He had to stretch out his pace just to keep up. Perkins was all legs. “You mind if I record our talk?”
Perkins stopped dead and turned back to face him. “Look, I’m not all that good with the press. If you know anything about me, you might have heard that. The only reason I agreed to talk to you is because my boss says he knows you and that you aren’t the typical garden-variety reporter.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“You’re welcome.” But Perkins didn’t look all that charitable. In fact, he looked like he might regret agreeing to meet with the reporter. Montillo could see the regret in his face and knew he’d have to do a bit of reassuring .
“I’m not run of the mill. I’ve been working with cops for over thirty years. You talk to me, and I won’t write anything that you don’t want public.”
Perkins bit his lower lip and sighed. “Let’s go, then.”
They pushed through the main entrance and onto the street. The sun beating down on them as they crossed the road to a small park. Trees towered overhead, offering some comfort of shade, but it was still plenty hot. Perkins stopped underneath the canopy of an oak tree and lit his cigarette. “Which one you here about? Highwayman or Norris?”
“Both.”
“Get out your recorder, Harry.” He took a draw on the cigarette and exhaled. Even five years off the damn things, Horace felt a craving tug at him. “You got until I finish this smoke.”
Montillo pulled out the voice-activated recorder and pressed the record button. “Okay, I’m all set.”
“Ask your questions.”
***
Chapter 1 - Infamous
1
7 May 2000
Syracuse, NY
The time was 1:00 a.m., Wednesday night, and the bar was dead. Wendy Birrell had been tending bar at Murphy’s for three years. Her wage was eight bucks an hour, plus tips. That was on weekends; on weeknights, the place was a tomb except for the odd barfly, so tips were scarce. Tonight, like most, she wore tight, low rider jeans that hugged her slim figure, and a plaid button-down shirt that draped neatly across her ample breasts. Her hair flowed in straight, dirty blonde cascades over her shoulders and onto the swell of her breasts. This was done purposely to arouse the male patrons. Aside from her figure, it was Wendy’s eyes that turned a man’s head. They were deep glacial blue, a color found in arctic waters lapping against icebergs.
Wendy Birrell was twenty-eight, she had a high school education and only one motivation in life. His name was Patrick. He was four, had his mother’s eyes, and curly, corn silk hair. Patrick’s father, also blond, had been a marine. Had, because he’d been killed in Iraq when Patrick was only four months old. He and Wendy were never a couple. He had been a fling, nothing more, but had he lived, she would have included him in her son’s life; had he known. He hadn’t and Wendy didn’t have a lot of options, so she tended bar, lived paycheck to paycheck and, for now, that was enough.
Most of the regulars were gone at this hour. Shuffling out after a few too many, slurring their words as they put on a coat or slung a purse like awkward preschoolers dressing to go outside and play. All gone. Except for one young man sitting at the corner of the bar sipping a Rolling Rock and stealing glances at her. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-one. He’d been in a couple of times this week, sitting unremarkably on the corner stool. She would have carded him, but then that would have chewed up any chance at a tip, and he’d left her a ten spot every time he was in. No one at Murphy’s left a ten spot. She figured him for a college kid, or maybe he’d been working at one of the vineyards during the spring plant. Tonight, just like every night he’d been in, he sat alone, glancing her way and checking her out. When she looked over, he would avert his contemplation to the beer bottle he held. No doubt perusing the alcohol content or maybe the origin of the brewery. Men were such predictable animals. She was checking him out as well, but it wasn’t as obvious. Eventually, she worked her way to that corner of the bar, and he began to chat her up.
“You from around here?” He was looking directly at her.
“I live in Westvale.” She polished the bar with the rag as she spoke.
“You go to SU when you’re not working?” he asked.
She laughed, shook her head. “No, I’m not exactly what you would call university material.”
Silence then, hanging between them uncomfortably.
“I just thought...”
“What? That I was working my way through college.” She smiled scathingly. “Isn’t that what half the strippers say over at The Chub?” The Chub, aka Chubby’s, was what some might call a gentleman’s club. “Why aren’t you there?”
“Sorry, I guess I was mistaken.”
She stopped then, furrowed her brow and the cynical smile fell away. Why had she spoken to this guy like that? He wasn’t anything but nice, and he had slipped her a ten every night he’s been in. “Aw, shit. That didn’t come out right. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”
“It’s okay. I shouldn’t have been nosy.”
“No, I shouldn’t have been a bitch. Let’s start over.”
“Okay.”
“My name’s Wendy. What’s yours?”
He looked up from the beer and grinned. “Devon.”
She dropped the cloth on the bar, stuck out her hand and said, “It’s nice to meet you, Devon. Are you from around here?”
He took her hand, his skin warm, smooth, and without callous. “I’m going to the university.”
She pulled her hand back, placed it over her mouth, giggled and then broke into laughter. He shook his head and smiled. When the laughter subsided, she grabbed him another beer. He reached for his wallet, and she said, “This is on the house.”
It was an hour before closing, and at that moment, she really didn’t think that she would end up sleeping with him. She hadn’t been with anyone for some months. But when she got home that evening and squared Patrick away, well... The idea of a warm body next to hers seemed appealing. This idea hadn’t begun to brew in the beginning, but as he sipped his beer, talked a bit about what he was taking at Syracuse University, the word “maybe” began to echo in the back of her subconscious.
Fifteen minutes later, she set another Rolling Rock on the bar at his request, and she said, “You’re not driving are you, Devon?”
“No, I walked. I’ll probably grab a cab back to the university.”
And then she decided. “I’m off in half hour. I can drive you to the university if you like.”
“Aw, that’s okay. I don’t wanna be any trouble.”
“No trouble. Besides, you’ll never get a cab at this hour. I can drive you back to the university if you like, or maybe we can go somewhere for coffee.” His eyes brightened at this, became charmingly boyish. She imagined a lean, young man beneath those clothes. Virile young man too. He would probably only last thirty seconds after getting into bed, but he’d be quick on the rebound.
“I don’t have any classes until tomorrow afternoon.”
“That settles it then,” Wendy said, and as he finished his beer, she went about the business of closing down. She moved around the bar collecting glasses, wiping things down, and eventually squaring up the cash. He sipped the last of his beer, watching her every move.
This was going to be easy.
She had him step out and wait on the front walk while she put away the evening deposit and set the alarm. Devon was the consummate young gentleman. He’d only had three beers, and if she made an offer to bring him back to her place, she guessed it wouldn’t affect his performance in the least. When she slid the deadbolt over and removed her key, she made her final decision. He was cute.
“Let’s go.” She led him to her car, a beat-up Chrysler Cirrus sitting curbside. She unlocked the car. They climbed in. She turned the key in the ignition, and the engine came alive. She reached over, placed a hand on his, and said, “You want me to take you back to the university, or would you rather come home with me?”
He smiled. “What do you think?”
She slid her hand up his leg and held it there, a finger teasing his manhood. “I think you want to come home with me.” Then she kissed him. Wendy was not promiscuous—this was definitely out of the norm for her—but she was a single mom, and that was a lonely business. She pulled back from the kiss, put the gearshift into drive, and pulled away from the curb.
