We are delighted to welcome back author Samuel Marquis to Omnimystery News today.
Samuel has a new book in his Joe Higheagle series, Cluster of Lies (Mount Sopris Publishing; September 2016 trade paperback and ebook formats) and we are so pleased that he has provided us with an excerpt to introduce it to you, the first chapter.
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GLAD YOU COULD MAKE IT, GUS."
With an ingratiating smile, Hayden Winthrop Prescott III rose from his chair and held out his hand as his guest was ushered into the private corporate luxury box. The smile was a front. In reality, his nerves were tied in knots and he loathed Gus McTavish. Taking an invisible breath, he reminded himself that this evening's dangerous enterprise would go off without a hitch if he maintained his composure and meticulously followed the script. The smile broadened, the two men shook hands, and Prescott motioned Gus to the seat next to him at the back of the suite.
Below on the ice, the first game of the semi-final Stanley Cup series between the Colorado Avalanche and hated Detroit Red Wings was in full swing. The crowd was loud tonight, a good sign, for it meant that he and his companion would be beyond earshot of the fans in the adjacent boxes.
"I don't much like ice hockey," sniffed Gus McTavish. "Let's get this over with."
Who the hell doesn't like the NHL playoffs? thought Prescott, looking over his intended victim with a mixture of disbelief and disdain. The truth was the renowned CEO was uncomfortable mingling with even middle-class people, and though Gus was technically a small-business owner, the guy was but a generation removed from white trash. He wore an outdated Fedora, navy blue polyester pants, and a cheap sports windbreaker — an ensemble which Prescott found not just tasteless, but pathetic.
"Easy now, boy-o," Prescott gently chided him. "It's the Stanley Cup playoffs, we've got my luxury box all to ourselves, and I am going to give you what you want — as long as you speak in a quiet voice." He tilted his head discretely to the fans in the adjacent box. "We don't want to let anyone in on our dirty little secrets now, do we Gus?"
He heard a knock at the door and a waiter appeared to take their drink orders. Prescott felt a pang of last-minute doubt. Should I go through with it? It's not too late to turn back. He cast a glance at Gus McTavish, taking in the harsh edges of his stubbly face, the ugly scowl and shabby clothes. He told himself that the greedy bastard deserved everything he had coming to him; and yet, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt at what he was about to do.
"What'll you have, Gus?"
"I'll take a beer and a shot of Jack Black. I don't care what kind of brewski. Just make sure it's not one of those low-calorie thingamajiggers."
Prescott smiled inwardly. Alcohol and heart medication — now there's a lethal mix. "And I'll have a Tom Collins," he said to the waiter, who wrote down the orders and headed out the door.
Prescott brushed a virtually invisible fleck of dust from his crisp blue blazer. "How's that pretty niece of yours doing?"
His guest's eyes narrowed. "You stay away from Sally. She doesn't need you messing up her life again."
"Easy, boy-o. I was just asking how she's doing."
"I know what you're up to. The last thing she needs is a gigolo type like you."
"What, I'm no longer good enough for your niece?"
"You just stay away —"
His words were drowned out as the Avalanche scored the game's first goal. The crowd leapt to its feet and roared loud enough to heave the building off its footings.
Prescott thought of Sally.
He had met her two years ago at a Christmas party given by a local law firm. Though the relationship hadn't lasted long — three or four months perhaps — it was serious. The truth was he came to care deeply about her, and that had filled him with panic. He had never fallen for anyone before — especially not a divorced woman saddled with a young boy — and wasn't sure how to deal with his unexpected emotions. Despite his strong feelings for her, he knew he would never be able to offer her any real long-term commitment, so he had, as gracefully as possible, put an end to the romance. He didn't want to hurt her or her son Tommy, who was obviously desperate to have a father figure in his life.
The arena turned quiet again as the teams lined up for the faceoff. There was no way he would ever hurt Sally or Tommy. But he had far different plans for despicable Uncle Gus.
As if on cue, his impending victim flashed an impatient look and snorted, "I'm going to need more than what we talked about."
"Is that so? I hear you've been a naughty boy, Gus, up to your old tricks."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"You've taken to gambling again and you've been losing big."
"Goddamnit, who told you that?"
"Oh, a little birdie. I told you the last time we went through this to stay away from Central City and Blackhawk. I've already made quite an investment for your silence. And the way I see it, I haven't gotten much in return — except, apparently, another bill to pay."
"This is the last time, I promise. I just need to … to settle things."
"You need more than that. I hear your wife moved out and you have a mountain of debt."
"You bastard. You have people following me?"
"Don't worry. I'm going to give you your money. I've got a good-faith down payment right here." He withdrew a manila envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and held it out for his victim to see. "But before I give it to you, I want your word that this is the last time."
Gus McTavish's eyes flickered with avarice at the sight of the envelope, his bony fingers creeping across the table like a tarantula.
Prescott quickly stuffed the envelope back in his pocket. "Not so fast, boy-o. You have to promise me you'll manage your personal finances better. I've already paid you two separate installments above and beyond your normal compensation, and you've squandered them. The key for any blackmailer is to properly manage the money he extorts. Apparently, you haven't learned this most fundamental axiom. Now, I need you to promise me that this is the last time, because there won't be another."
"All right, I promise. Just give it to me, goddamnit."
There was an addict's desperation in his eyes that made Prescott feel pity for the man. By God, by killing him I'll be doing the poor old sod a favor. At that moment, the waiter stepped into the box carrying a tray with their drinks, halting the conversation. Suddenly, a hundred different worries stampeded through Prescott's mind as he realized the grave risk he was about to take.
Should I go through with it? What if it doesn't work? What if I get caught? Is Paine in position? Will he come through as planned? Will I really be doing Gus a favor? Am I going to go to hell? What would Father think?
His mouth felt as dry as a cement kiln. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself as the waiter set the drinks on the table. He withdrew his wallet and paid the young man, giving him a generous tip. The waiter thanked him and stepped out the door.
Gus McTavish tossed back his shot of Jack Daniels and followed with a long pull from his beer, dribbling some down his chin. Prescott glanced to his left and right. To his relief, the fans in the adjacent boxes were not sitting at the tables towards the rear of the suite. Instead, they were seated in the rows up front, which meant that they were unlikely to witness what was about to transpire. He had planned to make his move when Gus went to the restroom to relieve himself, but was gripped with an overwhelming urge to act now. Of course, he didn't want to be too rash and blow the whole thing, but the tug he felt inside was almost unbearable.
And then, he met with a stroke of luck.
An Avalanche player was driven hard into the boards and a brawl ensued in the corner of the Avs zone. Setting down his beer, Gus stepped forward to get a closer look as the crowd roared like a Roman mob at a gladiatorial contest.
This is your chance! You've got to do it now!
Prescott quickly made sure the coast was clear. Then he withdrew a small vial from his pocket, twisted off the cap, and reached for Gus's beer with his right hand, keeping the vial upright and concealed in the palm of his other hand. As he had hoped, his intended victim was still preoccupied with the fight, his fists clenching and face grimacing violently in rhythm with the punches down on the ice. In a fluid motion, Prescott poured the contents of the vial into the beer cup, swished it around, and put the cup back on the table. Then he capped the vial, slipped it back into his pocket, and checked again to see if anyone was watching, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw no one was.
Whew, I've done it. But is it going to work?
He reached for his Tom Collins and tossed back half the cocktail, knowing he would need even steadier nerves for the tricky second phase yet to come. Down on the ice, the referees broke up the melee, assessing a double minor to the Red Wings for boarding and slashing and three matching majors to each team for fighting.
When Gus sat back down, Prescott said innocently, "Boys will be boys."
His victim gave a piglike grunt, picked up the poisoned beer, and took a hefty gulp.
Prescott felt a little knot of guilt, but it was too late to turn back now. He returned his attention to the game. The puck was dropped and the home team, now on the power play, quickly controlled the faceoff, carried the puck into the Red Wings' zone, and passed it around the perimeter. An Avalanche defenseman unleashed a blinding slapshot from the point, and the puck was deflected wide by the masked goaltender.
Four minutes later, nine and a half minutes into the first period, Gus McTavish had finished most of his beer and Prescott saw the expected change. He glanced anxiously to his left and right into the adjacent boxes as he had before. To his relief, everyone was engrossed in the game.
"You don't look so good, Gus. Are you all right?"
"I can't … can't seem to breathe." He tried to open his windbreaker, fumbling with the zipper. "Jesus, some…something's wrong." Already, his face carried a deathly gray pallor.
"What is it?"
"My…my heart." The older man's words came out in a ragged gasp and he clutched his chest. "My God … feels like … being crushed."
"Jesus, what can I do?"
"Pills … need…pills!"
He pulled out a plastic vial and, with shaking fingers, struggled to pull off the cap. An Avs player ripped a blazing snapshot on net. The goaltender threw up his blocker, deflected the puck to the corner, and players from both sides scrambled desperately for possession.
"What can I do, Gus? Talk to me."
"Pill … pill…" His fingers quivered as he grappled to unscrew the cap. "Never…felt…before."
As Prescott reached out to him, the man's eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed to the floor, spilling the vial of little green capsules. Seeing Gus withering before his very eyes, Prescott felt a frantic rush, as if he had just snorted a massive line of cocaine. He thought of Mumsie, and knew this was the kind of wild, reckless sensation she had thrived on. He looked left and right to see if anyone was watching, but the fans were focused intently on the flurry around the Red Wings net. With bodies flying all over the ice, an Avs player managed to pick up the loose puck and flip it towards the upper right-hand corner, glove side. There was a flicker of movement in the white mesh, the green light flashed, and the crowd jumped to its feet and cheered.
With the whole arena going wild, Prescott quickly stuffed a heart pill into Gus's mouth, grabbed the beer he had been drinking, and poured some of the poisoned fluid down his throat.
There, that ought to do it. Please just die, Gus. Please!
His victim just stared dazedly up at the ceiling, as if in a trance.
Come on! Die goddamnit!
At this massive dosage, Prescott knew that his victim couldn't possibly last more than a minute or two longer, but it was still excruciating to have to wait like this. He had better sound the alarm. He reached into his pocket, grabbed his scrambled untraceable mobile, and called Paine. Then he jumped to his feet and called out to the group of people in the adjacent luxury box.
"My God, I think he's having a heart attack!"
A man and a woman broke from the group and stepped quickly to the partition separating the two luxury boxes.
"A heart attack? Good heavens!" gasped the woman.
"He was trying to get his pills!" He pointed to the little green capsules scattered about the floor. "Please get help! Hurry!"
"We're on it!" the man cried. "Come on, Candice!"
"I'll look after him. Please hurry!"
The man and woman dashed off. Prescott returned his attention to Gus, sprawled on the floor. He had anticipated that there would be bystanders — in fact, he had been counting on there being ample witnesses to vouch for his heroic attempts to save Gus — but he wasn't sure what the response time would be, or who would come to the rescue. Would a medic or doctor be able to tell that Gus had been poisoned based on a cursory examination? He doubted it, but still the thought paralyzed him with fear. And where the hell was Paine?
Now other people from the adjacent luxury boxes were gawking over the partition. Prescott took off his blazer and placed it gently beneath Gus's head, then spoke in a soothing clinical voice for their benefit: "Hang in there, Gus. You're going to be okay. Help is on the way."
Suddenly, a man in a black vest and bow tie materialized in the box. It was Paine.
Finally, you bastard!
"What's the trouble, sir?" he asked in a Texas twang.
"I think he's had a heart attack."
When Paine leaned down next to him, Prescott discretely handed him the plastic beer cup and small vial that had held the poison.
"Don't you die on me, Gus!" he cried, convincingly he hoped. "Hang in there!" Then to Paine. "I'm afraid we're going to lose him! Quick, fetch a doctor!"
"Yes, sir! Right away!" Paine dashed off, cup in hand and vial in his pocket.
Prescott blew out a small sigh of relief as a pair of men climbed over the partition to help him.
And then, he noticed Gus was staring up at him.
There was an accusing look in his eyes, as if he knew the heart attack was no accident. The breath caught in Prescott's throat as he saw the betrayed expression; he knew he had to act fast.
"I've got to try and save him! I'm going to give him CPR!"
For all he knew, one or both of the new Good Samaritans could be a doctor, so before they could intervene, he climbed on top of Gus and pinned him down with the full weight of his body. Then he pinched off his nose, pressed his lips against his mouth, and pretended to blow air in repeated bursts, as if he was giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He could feel Gus struggling beneath him, grappling to wriggle free, and he could see his eyes, an inch away, bulging with panic.
Don't be a spoiled sport, Gus. Just die, goddamnit. Your life's a mess. All I'm doing is liberating you!
The body quivered beneath him like a mass of jelly and the eyes grew so big Prescott thought they would explode. But the drunken old sod was too weak to offer much resistance and, after a tense moment that seemed an eternity, Prescott felt Gus go slack beneath him. When it was clear that it was over, he faked a sob and shook his head in feigned disbelief.
"Oh my God, look at his face!" one of the men next to him gasped.
Looking down at his victim, Prescott shuddered with horror. Gus McTavish's face had a sickly yellowish-green hue and was twisted into an indelible expression of betrayal — the eyes filled with torment and accusation. With a mixture of horror, revulsion, and fear, Prescott leaned down and closed the eyelids with a brush of his hand.
He felt an overwhelming wave of guilt. My God, what have I done?
But at least now it was over. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, the sense of triumph returned to him like a hammer blow.
I've done it! I'm going to get away with it! Mumsie would be so proud!
A pair of medics charged into the box, accompanied by three uniformed cops and the man and woman that had scrambled to get help. The medics worked mightily to resuscitate Gus, but their efforts were in vain.
Meanwhile, Zachary Paine was already outside the arena, firing up his Camaro, the plastic cup and empty vial concealed in his pocket.
As Gus McTavish was loaded onto a stretcher, there was one last thing for Hayden Winthrop Prescott III to do. With tears in his eyes and just the right amount of bereavement in his voice, he turned solemnly to the cop standing next to him and declared, "He was my friend — and I couldn't even save him."
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Photo provided courtesy of
Samuel Marquis
Samuel Marquis is by day a VP-Hydrogeologist with an environmental consulting firm in Boulder, CO, and by night as an iconoclastic spinner of historical and modern suspense yarns. He holds an M.S. degree in Geology, is a Registered Professional Geologist in eleven states, and is a recognized expert in groundwater contaminant hydrology, having served as an expert witness in several class action cases. He also has an abiding interest in military history and intelligence, specifically related to the Golden Age of Piracy, Plains Indian Wars, World War II, and current War on Terror. His strong scientific background and passion for military history and intelligence have served Marquis well as a suspense writer. In addition to his suspense novels, Marquis is the author of over 25 professional papers and book chapters on groundwater contaminant fate and transport and remediation.
For more information about the author, please visit his website at SamuelMarquisBooks.com and his author page on Goodreads, or find him on Facebook and Twitter.
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Cluster of Lies by Samuel Marquis
A Joe Higheagle Novel
Publisher: Mount Sopris Publishing
In this second thriller in the Joe Higheagle Environmental Sleuth Series, mysterious deaths are taking place in the Rocky Mountain region outside Denver, Colorado. Joe Higheagle — a full-blooded Cheyenne geologist who has recently become an overnight celebrity for bringing down a billionaire corporate polluter — is hired to investigate Dakota Ranch, where four boys have recently died from a rare form of brain cancer, and Silverado Knolls, a glitzy soon-to-be-built development. He quickly finds himself entangled in an environmental cancer cluster investigation as well as a murderous conspiracy in which friend and foe are indistinguishable and a series of seemingly impenetrable roadblocks are thrown in his path.
— Cluster of Lies by Samuel Marquis
