Anger and hatred,
If left unchecked,
Can easily fill the landscape of the mind.
Fear any thought that consumes the heart while it sickens the soul.
Better to let the guilty walk unpunished
Than to punish oneself
With poisonous obsession.
16 -- Something In The Air
Inspector Jack Brown handed his boarding pass to the attendant and made his way down the aisle, easily tossing his one carry-on bag into the overhead compartment. In a few hours he would be in Boston, where Professor of Psychology Rhonda Copps had recently been murdered.
It was official – they were calling it murder. There were now two ‘mysteries’ that could be directly linked to the author Leda Maguire within a relatively short period of time.
Jack moved his knees to allow a woman and her son to clamber into the seats next to him. His long legs required an aisle seat, so he could occasionally stretch them.
He made himself comfortable, thankful the woman had allowed her son to have the window seat. He liked children, but didn’t relish the idea of being trapped next to an eight year old for the duration of the flight.
Once they were in the air, Jack pulled the slender paperback from his jacket pocket. He was nearly finished reading about the gruesome events. The book was well written, and the author had taken pains to try to balance the bleak descriptions of bloody violence with passages of hope and faith in humanity.
Still, the overall tale was one that would linger in sickening images for many years to come.
He read the final chapters, finishing just as the lunch cart approached. Turning the book over, he studied the author’s photo once more. He’d been deeply impressed by the petite Leda Maguire. The self-composure and good grace she exuded were unusual in someone with her background. She’d been raised in an environment of drunken abuse and married a man who must have, in some way, reminded her of her own father.
When her husband’s murderous rage robbed Leda of her entire family, he had stolen something even more vital from her. He had also robbed her of her faith – of any desire to connect in a human way. How could anyone regain sufficient trust after seeing the things Leda had seen?
Jack wasn’t buying the book’s attempt at a message of hope.
He shook his head. Leda was alone, except for her bodyguard and apparent friend Helen Strachan. He suspected she would remain unattached for the balance of her life. How could such a woman expect to love again? The nightmares alone would kill any hope of romance.
Jack tucked the book back into his pocket. As much as he liked and respected Ms. Maguire, he had to admit there was a peculiar set of coincidences at play in her world. Ask any cop – most will tell you they really don’t care much for coincidences, cosmic or otherwise.
**
Stacey Bigelow caught her reflection in the glass doors of the subway car. Her midnight blue pumps hurt her feet. She was nearly alone and there were plenty of empty seats, but she preferred to stand. She feared the elegant blue silk dress would crumple if she sat.
Her short natural blonde hair fell in bouncy curls around her face. Despite the anxiety in her gut, she had to smile. After all, she was a girl. And she looked terrific.
The dress and shoes alone were worth several nights’ work, not to mention the fine lace undergarments Masha had convinced her to buy. Stacey studied the result: she looked like a young woman of quality. Once this night was over, she would have the outfit cleaned. It would become the starting point for her new life – a life of nice clothes and decent work and self-respect.
She got off at King and University and walked west rather than waiting for a streetcar. It wasn’t far, and she was early. Of course, she’d been warned about the consequences of being late.
Five thousand dollars was a lot of money. Ten, actually. Five had already been paid directly to Masha, and the other five would go into Stacey’s elegant blue silk purse in the morning, once the last client was satisfied.
“Stacey,” Mr. Hudson said, opening the door, “I’m glad you’re early. The others will be arriving soon. We’re expecting ten ladies. A few gentlemen are already upstairs.”
Stacey’s eyes took in the fabulous downtown loft apartment. The old building had been fully restored on the inside, while maintaining its original exterior. A spiral staircase led up to a spacious lounge, where a handful of men in Armani had already begun to gather.
“By the way, dear,” Mr. Hudson added, “the dress is perfect.”
“Thank you,” she said.
By six-thirty all of the girls and most of the thirty men had gathered in the banquet hall for dinner. Slinky jazz music set the mood, along with candlelight and fine wine. The men came in all ages, nationalities, shapes and sizes, but all were impeccably dressed for the occasion.
The girls were turned out in a vast array of colours and fabrics, but were otherwise alike in size and shape. They were young and beautiful, with bodies that could stop a truck.
Stacey found the table she’d been assigned to and willed her heart to slow its thumpity-thumping as the waiter poured white wine into her glass. She didn’t waste any effort in wondering whether the meal would be fish or foul. Only a fool would fail to understand what was really on the menu.
The air was alive with barely restrained expectation.
_______________________________
TUNE IN NEXT WEEK, FOR VOLUME 17 OF "TWO GOOD HANDS", a Leda And Strachan mystery!
Copyright belongs to Donna Carrick. No part of this story may be reproduced without the written consent of the author.
The Penny Dreadful is a group of Serial Authors who came together through Twitter to present you with weekly installment of their stories. Hope you enjoy!
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