Fabricated Lies: He Thinks He's the Hunter Read online

  Savoy House Publishing

  Fabricated Lies. Copyright © 2022 Patrick Hanford.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact:

  Savoy House Publishing

  PatrickHanford.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are creations of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as factual. Any resemblance of events, locations, organizations or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  ISBN: 979 8 9856939 1 1 (paperback)

  979 8 9856939 0 4 (ebook)

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Fabricated Lies

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Stay in Touch

  Coming Soon from Patrick Hanford:

  The Creation of Marla Adams

  (Preorder on Amazon)

  Necrotic Survival

  Chapter 1

  They called the killing chair ‘Yellow Momma.’

  At Holman Prison, Alabama, another inmate got the lucky job of slapping on another coat of paint for today’s show. Splattered bright yellow paint on the concrete floor surrounded the electric chair, the same color as the ‘Do Not Pass’ stripes down the middle of a road.

  After eleven years, Jake Washington had lost his last legal battle. A rock the size of Gibraltar stuck in the middle of his throat. His dry tongue scratched across cracked lips while heartbeats thrashed inside his chest. Every few seconds, he blinked, hoping for something better.

  Strapped to a hard wooden chair inside a brick room with two square windows, he swore to anyone listening he would never kill anyone again.

  The warden stood outside a window with arms crossed. Behind him, the mandatory witnesses shuffled in their chairs. Women swept their hands across their dresses. Men straightened their ties and jacket collars.

  A sponge soaked with saltwater sat trapped between Jake’s shaved scalp and a metal bowl. An electric cord jutted toward the wall. Cold sweat and water dripped from the sponge down his cheeks to the leather straps on his wrists. He shifted his eyes toward his family. His chest heaved as dry lips opened to stuttering gasps.

  Jake looked out at his wife, who stared back at him outside the death room while rubbing her pregnant belly. He’d been incarcerated for years and didn’t know who the father was. He didn’t care anymore.

  Eighteen-year-old Clarice stood next to her mother. There were chairs, but she didn’t want to sit. She held her mother’s arm tight. Her eyes frozen, unblinking on her daddy. She felt heat rise up her neck as she watched him mouth at her, “I’m sorry, Princess.”

  Her olive-colored skin was unblemished, except for a small white spot on the left side of her forehead. Her mother tried wiping the whiteness away every day for the last decade.

  Clarice wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck. “Mama, stop this.”

  Her mother’s words faltered. Tears ran down her cheeks.

  A round government-issued clock with a white face and black numbers hung on the wall. She heard each incessant second-hand click pound in her head. She wished for it all to go away.

  Clarice stared at the warden aiming a Kodak camera at her daddy. She flinched when the picture snapped. The motor whined and pushed an image out the front of the camera. Watching him take the corner of the photograph with his thumb and index finger and fanning it dry, she wanted to steal it and tear it apart.

  Inside the death room, an officer stood next to the wall and held a phone receiver to his ear, waiting for a governor’s reprieve. His left hand adjusted the chrome-plated police badge on his chest. The brightness of the badge flickered against Clarice’s eyes. He glanced toward the black curtain pulled halfway back.

  The executioner stood motionless behind the curtain, waiting for his turn. His fingers slid sideways on the red switch. The volt and amp meter needles pointed toward zero. He smelled fear. He’d smelled it yesterday.

  The minute and hour hands waited at twelve. The warden tapped his watch. Clarice mumbled, “No.”

  The officer shook his head, hung the phone back on the cradle, and slipped a black hood over Jake Washington’s head.

  The second-hand clicked past 57, 58, 59. All three hands snapped together in one row.

  Clarice turned away.

  The black curtain shut. The voltmeter jumped to 2400, the amp meter swung to 8. A heavy buzz instantly filled the room as a bolt of lightning seared from Jake’s brain to his leather-strapped ankles.

  Clarice closed her eyes. Tears flowed. Ears roared. Her prayers disappeared.

  The man with the badge killed her daddy.

  She never forgave her daddy for dying in the electric chair, she never forgave the man with the chrome-plated badge, and she’s no princess.

  ፠

  Fifteen years later, Clarice’s vitiligo spread from a small white spot on her forehead to warped white patches across her
face. Children called her Jersey because of her facial patches. It stuck, and no one remembered her actual name for the rest of her life. Her mother taught her how to use knives, stand up for herself, and live off bribes and graft, then left her when she died in a police shoot out. Her half-sister, Rosie, landed in juvie for assault and battery.

  Clarice left Alabama behind, and Jersey headed for Chicago. At six-foot-one and two hundred pounds of lean muscle, she likes Goose Island beer, sharp knives, and killing, especially cops.

  Chapter 2

  Chicago Police Officer Remo Wolf charges through crowds. He pulls the White Sox cap down farther on his forehead while drumbeats of rain bounce off his hooded jacket. His sweatpants stick to his wet legs.

  He runs every day from the Navy Pier, crosses a Chicago River bridge, and through the tunnel under the rail line to the Cedar Tree Tavern three miles away. Rhythmic footfalls pound the wet sidewalk one foot in front of the other. He maneuvers between cars rushing through intersections, constantly visualizing potential cover as his captain taught him in the Afghan hills. His heart pounds inside his chest while deep exhalations billow warm mist into the icy rain. He runs from his past, and it never leaves.

  A man wearing water repellent clothing and riding a mountain bicycle turns at the corner and cuts Remo off. He spins like Walter Payton and charges past the bike, feet splashing water across his pant legs.

  A block away, he spots the green awning of his destination. His pace quickens.

  Remo hands the green-painted door and stands at the entrance. Rain splatters the concrete sidewalk behind him. “Jimmy.” With one hand on his hip and the other in the air, he points at the bartender. “I make it this time?”

  With a stopwatch in his hand, Jimmy, the bartender, shakes his head. “Nope, eight seconds slower.”

  Officer Bobby Lynch, Remo’s partner, sits at the bar with half of his beer gone. “Slow. Very slow. Try harder tomorrow.”

  Remo pushes the wet nylon hood back from his head. “What are you doing here? Thought you said you had stuff to do today.”

  “I did. After our shift ended this morning, I went to the credit union, got a haircut, bought ammunition, went to the grocery store, and then stopped by Becky’s house and... well, you know.” He points to a full mug of beer. “And now, here you are, gasping for air. Drink up, partner. You want me to find a wheelchair for you?”

  “You should stay away from your brother’s wife.” Remo points at a keg tap handle. “You got PBR?”

  Jimmy smiles while wiping down a century-old bar counter with divots and chips along with a few names carved into the wood from years past. “Yep. Five fresh kegs of Pabst Blue Ribbon delivered this morning.”

  Remo finishes his beer, points for another, then scans the room. The only other patron, a muscular woman with deltoids like armor plating and white patches on her bronze-painted face, sits alone at the other end of the bar. She takes another drink from her beer bottle with her left hand while a small knife twirls between her right fingers. Remo leans toward Jimmy and asks, “Know her?”

  Jimmy shrugs his shoulders. “She comes here a couple of times a week for an hour or so.”

  “Got a name?”

  “Calls herself Jersey.”

  “Jersey—she do anything besides drink alone?”

  “Sometimes a person comes in and sits next to her.”

  “Yeah? And does what?”

  “Talk, drink.” Jimmy pulls a shot glass out of the small dishwasher and wipes it dry.

  “Same person?”

  Jimmy shakes his head. “No. Different people. They talk and then sometimes they slide an envelope to her.”

  “An envelope? That’s important information. Don’t you think?”

  “All I care about is her buying beer.”

  “Then what?”

  “A few minutes later, two others come in. Always the same two guys. She tips good, so I don’t say nothing.”

  Remo glances at Bobby. “Doesn’t smell right.” Remo looks back at Jimmy. “Can you describe the two?”

  “The two guys? Sure. A skinny little fart with an Irish accent, and the other is a fat guy someplace south of Texas.”

  Jersey holds an empty bottle in the air. “Another Goose.”

  “Goose?”

  “That’s all she drinks, Goose Island IPA.” Jimmy snaps the cap off a bottle.

  “Let me have her beer,” Remo says as he grabs his mug with a fresh draw.

  Her eyes glance at him as he places the bottle in front of her. “One Goose IPA on me.”

  She rubs her left hand across her lips while the knife continuously flips between her right fingers. “Do I know you?”

  “No.” Remo waves his hand in front of him. “Just thought I’d buy you a beer.”

  She takes the bottle in her left hand. “Thanks.”

  “Got a name?” Remo asks.

  She stares at him for a few seconds, then says, “Jersey.”

  “Jersey. That’s an unusual name. From there?”

  Her eyebrows furrow while the knife continues to twist between her fingers. “No, I’m not. I just like Jersey. Fits me.”

  Remo taps his forehead. “Oh, you mean because of...” He points to her forehead.

  She jabs the knife tip into the wood countertop. “You got a problem with my name?”

  He clicks his mug against the knife blade stuck in the wood. “No, not at all. Let’s change the subject. Come here often?”

  “Is that your pickup line?”

  Remo smiles. “No. Of course not. I use others.”

  She drinks from the bottle, then wipes her sleeve across her mouth. “So, what do you want?”

  “You work?” Remo asks.

  “Yeah, I work.”

  Remo leans against the bar. “What do you do?”

  “I clean up garbage. Why do you care?” She takes another drink.

  “Yeah? Me too.” He takes a long draw from his PBR and puts the mug near her bottle. “I clean up my own garbage pretty well. Maybe we work for the same people.”

  “No. I work for me, and you don’t.”

  “If I need the garbage cleaned up some time, you think you might help?”

  “Thought you said you cleaned your own garbage.”

  “Big city. Can’t clean everything by myself.”

  She finishes her beer, stands, and slides a twenty-dollar bill under her empty bottle. Pulling the knife point out of the wood, she closes it and puts it in her pocket. “Well, thanks for the beer.”

  “If I need help, can I call you?”

  “You can catch me here some days. Got to go.” She struts out the front door as rain pounds the concrete.

  Bobby looks at Remo. “What the hell was that?”

  Remo shrugs as he sits back on the stool next to Bobby. “Think I just made friends with a hitman or woman.”

  Chapter 3

  Remo rubs shrapnel buried deep in his thigh. “Are you coming back with me to the pier?”

  “Got my slickers on and my running shoes for rain.” Bobby licks the last drop of beer off the rim of his empty mug. “You’ve already run three miles, rubbed your thigh, and you’re old. Andrew Jackson in my pocket says I got you beat by fifty feet. You ready?”

  “A Jackson? Fifty feet? Let me think about it. Besides, I’m only four days older than you.” Remo holds two fingers in the air. “Jimmy, two more PBRs and two shots of Bulleit.”

  “That’s what I said. You’re old and worn out. Bet you’ve got knees and ankles cracking when you move.”

  Jimmy pushes two shot glasses full of Bulleit Bourbon between them.

  “Mine don’t.” Remo holds his fist near Bobby’s face. “But I could make yours crack if you want me to.”

  Two beers slide down the bar. Eye-to-eye, they gulp the bourbon, then clink the mugs.

  “We finish the beer and go,” Remo says. “First one to stop in front of the Navy Pier entrance wins, and my Jackson says you’re just a kid with a big mouth.”
br />   ፠

  Standing in front of the Navy Pier entrance, hands on their knees, Remo and Bobby take deep breaths. A bright sun cuts through clouds, making rain a short-term memory. Hundreds of people appear outside, as if Star Trek transported them there all at once.

  “Are you trying out for the Olympics?” Bobby asks.

  “Trying to stay ahead of your scrawny ass. You got skates on those shoes?”

  Bobby feels a tap on his shoulder. “Hi, stranger.”

  He turns to see Becky’s smiling face inches from his. Her husband, Belly, Bobby’s older brother, steps to her with a transparent bag of cotton candy in each hand.

  “Here you go,” Belly says. “Hey, Bobby. Why are you running in the rain?” He pats his stomach. “Can’t keep this big boy hanging over your belt if you run every day.”

  She ignores her husband and smiles at Bobby. “Haven’t seen you lately.”

  “Becky?” Bobby’s eyes shift between her and Belly. “Right, it’s been...it has been a while.”

  After she takes a bite, she says, “Belly, honey, would you get me a pink lemonade? I’m parched.” After Belly steps away, she leans into Bobby. “Don’t you ever leave my house like you did this morning. I made you breakfast, and you snuck out the back door.” She points at Remo. “Were you in such a hurry to get back to your buddy?”

  Chapter 4

  Just after eleven o’clock at night, Remo turns the steering wheel of his police car. Headlights swing across locked buildings.

  Bobby glances out the window. “I can feel your thoughts.” He shifts his weight in the seat. “Black as night.”

  “Yeah. Pretty black outside.”

  “Come on, tell ol’ Bobby what’s bothering you.”

  “Same shit. Dead buddies in Afghanistan, idiots on these streets, and assholes in the department. Chicago’s not right for me. I should head back to hometown.”

  “Don’t give me that crap. Ignore everyone. I’m here for you, and I want you to stay in Chicago. You need to slow down on the alcohol. You get moody with too much of that stuff.”

  Remo’s right hand taps Bobby’s chest. “Thanks.”

  “Besides,” Bobby smirks, “I backed off so you could win this afternoon. You probably need the twenty.”