Chapter One
Edson, AB – Thursday, June 13, 2013 – 10:55 AM
Sitting on the
threadbare carpet in front of the living room fireplace, Marcus Taylor stroked
a military issue Browning 9mm pistol against his leg, the thirteen-round
magazine in his other hand. For an instant, he contemplated loading the gun―and
then using it.
"But then
who'd feed you?" he asked his companion.
Arizona, a
five-year-old red Irish setter, gave him an inquisitive look, then curled up
and went back to sleep on the couch. She was a rescue hound he'd picked up
about a year after Ryan and Jane had died. The house had been too damned quiet.
Lifeless.
"Great to
know you have an opinion."
Setting the gun
and magazine down on the floor, Marcus propped a photo album against his legs
and took a deep breath. The photo album
of death. The album only saw daylight three times a year. The other three
hundred and sixty-two days it was hidden in a steel foot locker that doubled as
his coffee table.
Today was Paul's
forty-sixth birthday. Or it would have been, except Paul was dead.
Taking another
measured breath, Marcus felt for the chain that marked a page and opened the
album. "Hey, Bro."
In the photo,
Corporal Paul Taylor stood on the shoulder of a deserted street on the
outskirts of a nondescript town in Afghanistan, a sniper rifle braced across
his chest and the Browning in his hand. He'd been killed that same day, his
limbs ripped apart by a roadside bomb. The IED had been buried in six inches of
dust and dirt when Paul, distracted by a crying kid, had unwittingly stepped on
it.
One stupid mistake
could end in death, separating son from parents and brother from brother.
Resentment could separate siblings too.
"I wish I
could tell you how sorry I am," Marcus said, blinking back a tear.
"We wasted so much time being pissed at each other."
As a young kid,
he'd hidden his older brother's toy soldiers so he could play with them when
Paul was at school. In high school, Marcus had hidden how smart he was, always
downplaying his intelligence in favor of being the cool, younger brother of
senior hockey legend Paul Taylor. Marcus had learned to hide his jealousy too.
Until his brother
was killed.
He stared at the
warped dog tag at the end of the chain. It was all that was left of his
brother. There was nothing to be jealous of now.
He glanced at the
gun. Okay, he had that too. He'd inherited the Browning from Paul. One of his
brother's war buddies had personally delivered it. "Your brother said you
can play with his toys now," the guy had said.
Paul always had a
warped sense of humor.
"Happy
birthday, Paul."
He knew his
parents, who were currently cruising in the Mediterranean, would be raising a
toast in Paul's honor, so he did the same. "I miss you, bro."
Then he dropped
the tag and flipped to the next set of photos in the album. A brunette with
short, choppy hair and luminous green eyes smiled back at him.
Jane.
"Hello,
Elf."
He traced her
face, recalling the way her mouth tilted upward on the left and how she'd watch
a chick flick tearjerker, while tears steamed unnoticed down her face.
Marcus turned to
the next set of photos and sucked in a breath. A handsome boy beamed a
brilliant smile and waved back at him.
"Hey, little
buddy."
He recalled the
day the photo had been taken. His son, Ryan, a rookie goalie on his junior high
hockey team, had shut out his opponents, giving his team a three-goal lead.
Jane had snapped the picture at the exact second when Ryan had found his father
in the crowd.
"I love
you." Marcus's voice cracked. "And I miss you so much."
He couldn't hide
that. Not ever.
There was one other
thing he couldn't hide.
He had killed
Jane. And Ryan.
For the past six
years, whenever Marcus slept, his dead wife and son came to visit, taunting him
with their spectral images, teasing him with familiar phrases, twisting his
mind and gut into a guilt-infested cesspool. The only way to escape their
accusing glares and spiteful smiles was to wake up. Or not go to sleep. Sleep
was the enemy. He did his best to avoid it.
Marcus glanced at
the antique clock on the mantle. 11:06.
Another
twenty-four minutes and he'd have to head to the Yellowhead County Emergency
Center, where he worked as a 911 dispatcher. He'd been working there for almost
six months. He was halfway through five twelve-hour shifts that ran from noon
to midnight. He worked them with his best friend, Leo, who would undoubtedly be
in a good mood again. Leo liked sleeping in and starting his day at noon, while
Marcus preferred the midnight-to-noon shift, the one everyone else hated. It
gave him something to do at night, since sleeping didn't come easily.
He closed the
photo album, stood slowly and stretched his cramped muscles. As he placed the
album and the gun and magazine back in the foot locker, a small cedar box with
a medical insignia embossed on the top caught his eye, though he did his best
to ignore it.
Even Arizona knew
that box was trouble. She froze at the sight of it, her hackles raised.
"I
know," Marcus said. "I can resist temptation."
That box had
gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion. It represented a past he'd
give anything to erase. But he couldn't toss it in the trash. It had too firm a
grip on him. Even now it called to him.
"Marcus…"
"No!"
He slammed the
foot locker lid with his fist. The sound reverberated across the room, clanging
like a jail cell door, trapping him in his own private prison.
Behind him,
Arizona whimpered.
"Sorry,
girl."
One day he'd get
rid of the box with the insignia and be done with it once and for all.
But not yet.
Shaking off a bout
of guilt, he took the stairs two at a time to the second floor and entered the
master bedroom of the two-bedroom rented duplex. It was devoid of all things
feminine, stripped down to the barest essentials. A bed, nightstand and tall
dresser. Metal blinds, no flowered curtains like the ones in the house in
Edmonton that he'd bought with Jane. The bedspread was a mishmash of brown
tones, and it had been hauled up over the single pillow. There were none of the
decorative pillows that Jane had loved so much. No silk flowers on the dresser.
No citrus Febreeze lingering in the air. No sign of Jane.
He'd hidden her
too.
Stepping into the
en suite bathroom, Marcus stared into the mirror. He took in the untrimmed
moustache and beard that was threatening to engulf his face. Leaning closer, he
examined his eyes, which were more gray than blue. He turned his face to catch
the light. "I am not
tired."
The dark circles
under his eyes betrayed him.
Ignoring Arizona's
watchful gaze, he opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed the tube of
Preparation H, a trick he'd learned from his wife Jane. Before he'd killed her.
A little dab under the eyes, no smiling or frowning, and within seconds the
crevices in his skin softened. Some of Jane's "White Out"—as she used
to call the tube of cosmetic concealer—and the shadows would disappear.
"Camouflage
on," he said to his reflection.
A memory of Jane
surfaced.
It was the night
of the BioWare awards banquet, nineteen years ago. Jane, dressed in a pink
housecoat, sat at the bathroom vanity curling her hair, while Marcus struggled
with his tie.
He'd let out a
curse. "I can never get this right."
"Here, let
me." Pushing the chair behind him, Jane climbed up before he could
protest. She caught his gaze in the mirror over the sink and reached around his
shoulders, her gaze wandering to the twisted lump he'd made of the full
Windsor. "You shouldn't be so impatient."
"You shouldn't be climbing up on
chairs."
"I'm fine,
Marcus."
"You're
pregnant, that's what you are."
"You calling
me fat, buster?"
Five months
pregnant with Ryan, Jane had never looked so beautiful.
"I'd never do
that," he replied.
She cocked her
head and arched one brow. "Never? How about in four months when I can't
walk up the stairs to the bedroom?"
"I'll carry
you."
"What about
when I can't see my toes and can't paint my toenails?"
"I'll paint
them for you."
"What about
when―"
He turned his head
and kissed her. That shut her up.
With a laugh, she
pushed him away, gave the tie a smooth tug and slid the knot expertly into
place.
He groaned.
"Now why can't I do that?"
"Because you
have me. Now quit distracting me. I still have to put on my dress and
makeup."
Marcus sat on the
edge of the bed and waited. Jane always made it worth the wait, and that night
she didn't disappoint him. When she emerged from the bathroom, she was a vision
of sultry goddess in a designer dress from a shop in West Edmonton Mall. The
baby bump in front was barely noticeable.
"How do I
look?" she asked, nervously fingering the fresh gold highlights in her
hair.
"Sexy as
hell."
She spun in a slow
circle to show off the sleek black dress with its plunging back. Peering over
one glitter-powdered shoulder, she said, "So you like my new dress?"
"I'd like it
better," he said in a soft voice, "if it was on the floor."
Minutes later,
they were entwined in the sheets, out of breath and laughing like teenagers.
Sex with Jane was always like that. Exciting. Youthful. Fun.
After dressing,
Jane retreated to the bathroom to fix her hair and makeup. "Camouflage
on," she said when she returned. "Now let's get going."
"Yes,
ma'am."
He heard her
whispering, "Six plus eight plus two…"
"Are you
doing that numerology thing again?" he asked with a grin.
Jane had gone to a
psychic fair when she'd found out she was pregnant, and a numerologist had
given her a lesson in adding dates. Ever since then, whenever something important
came up, she'd work out the numbers to determine if it was going to be a good
day or not. She even made Marcus buy lotto tickets on "three days,"
which she said meant money coming in. They hadn't won a lottery yet, but he
played along anyway.
"What is it
today?"
She smiled.
"A seven."
"Ah, lucky
seven." He arched a brow at her. "So I'm going to get lucky?"
"I think you
already did, mister."
They'd been late
for the awards banquet, which didn't go over too well since Jane was the guest
of honor, the recipient of a Best Programmer award for her latest video game
creation at BioWare. When Jane had stepped up on the stage to receive her
award, Marcus didn't think he could ever be prouder. Until the night Ryan was
born.
Ryan…the son I killed.
Marcus gave his
head a jerk, forcing the memories back into the shadows―where they belonged. He
picked up the can of shaving cream. His eyes rested, unfocused, on the label.
To shave or not to shave. That was the
question.
"Nah, not
today," he muttered.
He hadn't shaved
in weeks. He was also overdue for a haircut. Thankfully, they weren't too
strict about appearances at work, though his supervisor would probably harp on
it again.
The alarm on his
watch beeped.
He had twenty
minutes to get to the center. Then he'd get back to hiding behind the anonymity
of being a faceless voice on the phone…
From Cheryl Kaye
Tardif, the international bestselling author that brought you CHILDREN OF THE FOG, comes a terrifying psychological thriller that will leave you breathless…
"Submerged reads like an approaching
storm, full of darkness, dread and electricity. Prepare for your skin to
crawl."
—Andrew
Gross, New York Times bestselling
author of 15 Seconds
Two strangers
submerged in guilt, brought together by fate…
After a tragic car accident claims the lives of his wife, Jane, and son,
Ryan, Marcus Taylor is immersed in grief. But his family isn't the only thing
he has lost. An addiction to painkillers has taken away his career as a
paramedic. Working as a 911 operator is now the closest he gets to
redemption—until he gets a call from a woman trapped in a car.
Rebecca Kingston yearns for a quiet weekend getaway, so she can think
about her impending divorce from her abusive husband. When a mysterious truck
runs her off the road, she is pinned behind the steering wheel, unable to help
her two children in the back seat. Her only lifeline is a cell phone with a
quickly depleting battery and a stranger's calm voice on the other end telling
her everything will be all right.
Jesse Giles Christiansen is an American author who writes compelling literary fiction that weaves the real with the surreal. He attended Florida State University where he received his B.A. in English literature. He is the author of Pelican Bay, an Amazon #1 list bestseller, outselling Old Man and the Sea by Hemingway. One of Christiansen's literary goals is to write at least fifty novels, and he always reminds himself of something that Ray Bradbury once said: "You fail only if you stop writing."
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