Good Deeds

Also by D. Miles Martin

The Evolution of Mortality

All D. Miles Martin’s books are available here at Smashwords.com.

To Kevin Galbavi for steering me in the right direction

Table of Contents

Dedication

Also by D. Miles Martin

Good Deeds

Part One: Dream and Sacrifice

Part Two: Blood and Truth

Part Three: Nature and Nurture

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Excerpt from The Evolution of Mortality

PART ONE:

DREAM AND SACRIFICE

Understanding the laws of nature does not mean that we are immune to their operations.

-David Gerrold

CHAPTER ONE

1

THE BODY MIGHT never have been found if Lanny Bells followed the rules. But this was Lanny’s week for breaking the rules ... his own rules anyway. A Chicago city boy at heart, his yearly camping trip was an escape from the routines he embraced every other week of the year.

Lanny liked his routines. They made him feel safe, even if they also made him a little boring. On his vacations at Oakview Campground and RV Park, he gave up almost all his daily routines except his morning ritual. Wake early, let an anxious Mick out for a much needed pee, guzzle a V8, slip into an outfit that matched the day’s weather, and go for a run with the chocolate Lab keeping pace. He sometimes thought of brushing his teeth before leaving but morning breath often remained until he returned.

The run at Oakview brought him along a trail at the edge of the forest where he’d let Mick off his leash to bound freely alongside. Over a steep grade, just beyond the shade of the trees, the rising sun sparkled on lightly colored sand. From there the dunes rose and fell a few times before descending to the Lake Michigan shore. Approaching the curve that would lead him back among the trees, he looked at his watch. 7:18. He’d been gone just under forty-five minutes. The trail would lead to the campground where the hour marker would’ve only just passed. An hour simply wouldn’t cut it.

He had tackled the hills on prior trips. Wading through the sand had slowed him considerably and required much more effort than had seemed worthwhile. The top of that first hill was the highest point in the park, and slogging up it had only broken focus and wasted energy. He’d then lost his wind back on the slag-covered path, and the rest of the run had grown awkward and uneven. When he’d trotted back onto his campsite, his muscles had been taxed and he had felt none of the exhilaration that surged after a good workout.

A darkly stained wooden sign, thick and sturdy and carved with bright yellow letters, offered a plea from just off the footpath.

HELP PREVENT EROSION. KEEP OFF THE DUNES.

Curiosity pumped with his heart. How much had his stamina really improved? Nearing thirty years old, could he easily do now what had tired him in his teens and early twenties? He suddenly wanted the answer. He glanced back at the wooden sign. A lone runner and his dog couldn’t do too much damage to the terrain. Besides, this was his week for breaking the rules.

C’mon, boy, he called to Mick who had gained a few paces on his master. C’mon.

Lanny took a sudden side step and veered from the packed forest floor to the loose slope. A chipmunk darted onto the path right where a foot would’ve fallen: Nature’s way of telling him that he had made the right choice. Mick barked once and turned to follow, immediately at Lanny’s heels.

The cascading sand presented some difficulties but Lanny refused to change his stride. Sinking feet pushed off with the power of the toiling years, landed with a soft puff and a squeaky whistle, and began to sink again just before they were pulled from their trap. He looked up the hill—a good eighty feet to the top—and offered a grunt. Mick barked a reply, his four legs spraying sand.

The summer after high school, Lanny decided it was time to shed his baby fat (not only to rid himself of disappointed stares from his fellow city-goers but also to stop his mother from referring to his bulges as baby fat). He found the answer in running. He’d never taken to weight lifting or hours of crunches to keep his mid-section tight, but running became a religion and it devoured the jiggling flaps of skin and fat. Lanny applied to the University of Illinois tipping the scales at a squishy two-fifty. He accepted an engineering degree with a solid one-hundred-sixty-pound frame under his gown.

The Chicago Marathon had enjoyed Lanny’s presence six times now. This October would be number seven. Lucky seven. Keeping a seven-minute mile on his daily runs had been typical, even easy, for over two years. But he hadn’t ever been able to maintain that pace for the marathon. He averaged 7:33 last year. This year would be different. Seven for number seven, he could sometimes be heard chanting during his runs.

He strayed for one week to Northern Michigan, where he forced himself to remember a childhood tragedy. But he refused to drop running from his daily regimen. Fitting, given that those childhood memories were largely responsible for his need to make exercise part of his routine.

Halfway up the hill Lanny thought that the change in route had been a mistake. He would return to his camper-trailer utterly exhausted instead of refreshed. Then he hit a few strides on solid earth and jumped another quarter of the distance up the hill. His second wind kicked in just then and the last twenty feet seemed effortless, almost as though he was running downhill instead of up.

Cresting the peak, he felt the rush he was accustomed on runs along the bike paths back home. This might turn out to be a good idea after all. It could become part of his daily routine.

Lanny and Mick bounded down into a small valley of long grass. The blades stung a little against Lanny’s bare legs but he refused to slow down now. (Seven for number seven.) Besides, the downward momentum drove him up the next rise. He felt great. For a brief moment, he forgot his love of the city. The city was predictable and he liked that every turn presented the same thing you’d just left behind: people on cell phones pushing their way through a crowd of strangers, car horns whistling a melody of impatience, and another wall filled with windows that reflected the sky instead of revealing the lives of those on the other side.

But at that moment Lanny found that he enjoyed the serenity and calm of the wilderness. The calls from the trees and the hurried scuttles through the brush gave him a sense of peace that he didn’t get any other time of the year.

Then he came over another hilltop and the sight in the dunes stopped him. The euphoric bliss stuck in his throat and hammered against his temples. On the loose footing, he couldn’t still his legs. He stumbled and fell to the ground, sliding down the slope. Lifting his head, he blinked the grains of beach sand from his eyelashes.

Good God, he whispered toward the bound and tortured body in the sandy hollow.

Mick had a better time of stopping and stood at the top of the hill. Three barks in quick succession, the dog’s way of mimicking Lanny’s sentiment, would be the last he would utter for the rest of the day.

2

Camden Malenfont felt he had the typical life of any eleven-year-old living in the Chicago suburbs. And it confused him. His parents loved and supported him and they made him laugh all the time, sometimes just because they were old dorks, but hey, a laugh’s a laugh. His older sister protected and guided him, and she never hugged him in front of his friends. His older brother sometimes messed with him but knew when enough was enough. The family ate breakfast together every morning and dinner together every night.

The Malenfonts looked forward to trips together. They rarely visited a place they’d been before, and Cam loved to see new places and learn about different people. Sometimes this meant a plane ride, sometimes a boat, once even a helicopter. But usually it meant a long ride on the bench seat of the Malenfont Missile, a silver Dodge Caravan.

They were headed on one such outing this weekend—a camping trip. His sister, Corinne, had won a full set of camping gear in the church raffle. They had a new three-room tent, a camp stove, an electric lantern, and cooking irons for making what Dad called hobo pies. (Cam wasn’t too sure about those, but he trusted his father when it came to good food.) The weather still had a chill but they’d already planned a late-summer trip to California. Without taking a long weekend now, they might have to wait a full year before trying out the new equipment. Besides, Corrine also received a fancy, high-tech sleeping bag, thin like a throw blanket but warm like a comforter. Dad had made a visit to the mall and returned with a similar sleeping bag for each Malenfont and a small battery-powered, ceramic, guaranteed-not-to-start-a-tent-on-fire space heater just in case.

They’d leave this afternoon. The Malenfont children would miss a couple days of school, but that was okay. Cam had asked for makeup work. It would keep him busy on the ride when he became bored with Travel Battleship, his Nintendo DS, and Colin’s Anime books.

McKenzie Johnson had been flirting with him, and even though he was more concerned with video game scores than courtship, Cam was pretty sure that he would have a girl to take to the end-of-year dance in a few weeks. The trip would mean two days away from the smiling glances but he was looking forward to the trip because it also meant spending time with his family. He had the perfect life after all.

That’s why he was so confused: his perfect life.

Someone with a perfect life didn’t have nightmares involving little rocklike creatures swarming a house like a colony of ants attacking a discarded lollipop, the bright sunlight blotted out by the piling rat-sized bodies while they discovered that glass breaks easily with the right pressure.

Someone with a perfect life didn’t have visions of a man ripping off his own thumb, tying one end of a thin rope around the digit’s base and the other end around the garage rafters and tugging and jerking until there was a pop and a gush of warm blood.

Someone with a perfect life didn’t have the dream that currently flashed in his sleeping mind’s eye and replaced all other groggy thoughts.

* * *

In Cam’s dream, a man lies naked on the ground. A large, brownish tattoo covers his otherwise bare chest. Cam can’t make out the design of the tattoo from the angle of his dream-vision, but he has the feeling that the image wouldn’t make any sense to him even if he could. He wants to get a better look. He has a hunch that the tattoo is important.

A closer view is not his to have, however. His dream-visions often work like that. He can’t move, just watch. When he does move, it is random and rarely when or where he wants. This one is no different. He observes from a low angle, perhaps twenty feet away and three or four feet above, seemingly buried to his neck in the sandy hill that leads up from the naked man.

Cam isn’t the best judge of adult age but the man looks pretty old, maybe even twenty or twenty-five. Like Cam, he has blond hair. Perhaps a goatee as well but Cam can’t tell for sure because dark stubble blots his jaw. Cam has a feeling it is morning in his dream, but the man is badly sunburned already. He has been here for a while, since yesterday or the day before.

A sand spider crawls across the man’s thigh. He doesn’t move a muscle, not one flinch.

Cam figures the man is dead. Not moving doesn’t necessarily mean death, but this guy should be moving. He should be struggling to get free. Four metal poles stick out from the sugar sand, and the man’s arms and legs are tied to them. The ropes don’t look terribly tight but they can keep him from reaching to other ropes and untying himself.

The sun glints off something on the ground near the man’s waist. Cam can’t make out what it is behind the glare—something metallic and partially buried in the loose sand.

Good God, whispers a voice in Cam’s head. A nearby dog barks three times.

The angle suddenly shifts back and up as though Cam is being yanked from the hole that has kept him so low to the ground. He hesitates for a moment then slowly begins to move forward. He is going to get a better look at that metal ... and the tattoo.

* * *

Camden Malenfont woke to the buzz of his alarm. He glanced over at the clock. 6:20. Time to get ready for school.

3

On a quiet street, inside a tidy two-bedroom home situated on a small but heavily wooded lot, nestled at the edge of a charming village in the center of Michigan’s landscape, Travis Goldblatt held back tears and poured himself another cup of burnt coffee. He’d been up all night staring into his backyard at nothing in particular. Not a thing had passed his lips that wasn’t bitter, black, and caffeinated.

Taking a few large gulps—the coffee had been cold since 4:00 AM—he returned to the chair at the window. The cup shook in his tired hand. He rested it on the arm of the chair to keep it steady. A faint yellow-orange streaked the gray dawn. The second night was nearly over. By the time the stars could be seen again, the whole ordeal should be done.

He understood the reasons, but Travis didn’t think a public park the best place for his brother Robby to take care of Order business. Nature was part of the deal, as was suffering, but something easily could go wrong. What if some young couple decided to have a picnic and a quick fuck on the dunes? Or a kid wanted to throw his Frisbee from the top of a tall hill to see how far it would fly? Or a couple on their fiftieth wedding anniversary decided to take an over-priced plane tour of the scene where they’d kissed for the first time?

The park was plain and simple a bad idea. Travis had tried to talk Robby into a different place—perhaps a field by one of the abandoned warehouses south of town, or, hell, even in the bushes of his own backyard—but Robby wouldn’t hear it.

It’s gotta be the park, Robby had said with steady conviction. That’s where it all starts, and that’s where I’m ending it.

Travis had taken in a deep breath to calm himself. I know about the park, he’d conceded. But if you don’t do it soon, you won’t be able to do it at all.

I know. I want to finish it now. There.

The older brother had only nodded.

Three days. Robby had put a hand on Travis’s shoulder to look at him squarely. If that. Three days and it’s over. I mean, shit, with the sun it will probably be a hell of a lot—

Don’t! Travis had pulled away. Don’t talk about what it’s going to be like. I don’t want to think about that kind of shit. I just want it over and I want the world to go back to normal.

It will, Robby had assured him. And I will. Everything will be normal again soon.

Waiting for some news, it didn’t feel normal now. Not yet. Maybe never again.

Travis had wanted to help but Robby wouldn’t let him. It was a solo job. Besides, if Travis was caught or any evidence put him in the area, nothing would go back to normal for sure, and his life would be in ruin. Attempted murder was bad enough, but tying someone to the ground ... a judge and jury would not go lightly. A lifetime in jail and a death unfinished would not fix anything.

The sky flashed from muddy grey to a dull blue. The third day was here. He hadn’t gotten any word yet, which was probably good news. If he didn’t hear anything today, he’d make a phone call himself.

He glanced up at the clock on the wall. The 7:30 news would be starting soon. Just enough time to take a leak and start a new pot of coffee.

He stood and walked into the bathroom where he vomited before relieving his bladder.

CHAPTER TWO

1

MELODY SHANDERS HADN’T slept for at least four days, maybe more. There may have been a few minutes here and there—she wasn’t sure—but those were from fainting and sedatives and could hardly be considered restful. She would like to sleep, and the cot was comfortable. Sleeping came uneasy, though, for a mind consumed with plans of escape.

A drastic problem for a college sophomore: her car wouldn’t start, was now in the shop, and Melody had wanted to attend a party across town. That bitch-whore, Tania Crendal, said she wasn’t going to the party and had refused to give Melody a ride. Melody had walked. Danny Ottersmith was supposed to have been there, and after a few drinks she’d probably have had a good chance at convincing him to go out, or even taking her home that night. At the very least, there’d have been other hot guys there. If it hadn’t panned out with Danny, she’d have hooked up with another and gotten herself laid.

Sleeping and sleeping around, that was her life before. Neither concerned her now.

Laws prohibited walking on the Interstate, but it was the quickest route. Also, it was the only route Melody knew. She hadn’t turned and stuck out a thumb, hadn’t contemplated hitchhiking. She’d just walked along the dusty shoulder on her three-mile jaunt to the party. When the driver had stopped and asked her if she had had any trouble, he’d seemed very kind. He was older, somewhere between her parents’ and grandparents’ age, and looked wealthy. He was probably retired, she had thought, and needed something to replace the fulfillment of a career and the emptiness of a home that no longer had kids and maybe not a wife either. Back in his day, acts of neighborly kindness were more common, and he’d just never adjusted to a harsher world. Or so Melody had told herself when she hopped into his sedan.

He had said that he couldn’t take her all the way to her aunt’s house (Melody had lied about her plans) but he could take her at least two miles down the Interstate. That would save her about thirty-five minutes of walking, and she’d be that much closer to Danny Ottersmith’s cock.

Russell (he’d introduced himself once they got moving) hadn’t dropped Melody off at her exit. Instead, he’d pulled a syringe from the compartment between the bucket seats and before her mind registered what it was, he’d jammed it into her leg. She struggled, but it was already too late. The notion of jumping from the car wafted momentarily through her thoughts, and then she realized that the drug was already taking affect and a tumble from a moving vehicle at highway speeds was not the best idea. She’d passed out before her mind had a chance to form any other plans.

He’d taken her to his home and tied her up in his basement. She now sat on the cot in a small room that smelled of earthworms. A dim light bulb offered a constant view of her cell. The walls were brick and mortar, the floor dark, gritty sand, and the ceiling plaster. Lime green paint that reminded Melody of the blanket she’d toted around as a child covered the room’s interior. A cot with a thin but soft mattress stood in the corner opposite the metal and securely locked door. Next to the cot, a freshly scrubbed toilet sat on a tiled slab and reflected the bulb’s light, seeming to glow in the shadowy prison. The lid to the tank had been removed, exposing the guts of the toilet.

Her bindings allowed her to move about, though she would not be able to run. Throbs pulsated in her head, both from panicked stress and from passing out and rapping her skull against the concrete wall. (Russell had noticed the abrasion and cleaned it in an odd act of kindness, dabbing the blood away with a wet handkerchief.) Although the rope was soft, her wrists and ankles were beginning to chaff.

Worse than the chaffing, the rope covered an anklet she’d worn for the last two years. Made of a hemp braid, it scratched the skin under her softer bindings. She felt the solitary blue gem rub against her ankle. It was meant to be her birthstone, but it was really just blue glass. Still, it had come from her Aunt Po, and that made it priceless.

Po (really Patricia, but toddler Melody had pronounced it Potricia and the nickname stuck) lived with Melody’s family until Melody was eleven years old. Melody’s grandmother had died before Melody could remember, and her grandfather passed from a heart attack when Melody was three. At fifteen, just starting the tenth grade, Po was orphaned and moved into Melody’s house and remained through community college graduation.

As a young adult, Po insisted on paying rent in the form of babysitting duties and spent more one-on-one time with Melody than Melody’s parents. Melody would never admit it to her mother and father, but she felt that Po had been the one to raise her. Melody’s mother took a part-time job but never truly reached anything resembling independence, putting the role of dutiful wife before all else. Melody sometimes wondered (silently to herself and aloud to Po) why her mother ever took a job when she seemed more comfortable as a housewife. Po had once explained that her older sister did whatever her husband wanted, be it fetching a beer or preparing a meat-and-potatoes meal or bringing in some extra cash.

Melody would realize years later that Po found Melody’s mother to be weak-willed, the kind of anti-feminist that helped keep all women under the male thumb.

After community college, Po moved to the dorms at Michigan State University and eventually joined the world as an accountant. Three years later, she was married. She held onto her sense of self and her new husband seemed to enjoy her feistiness. They were happy for a few years until the cancer crept into her system. Po’s husband couldn’t cope with the stress of a terminally ill wife, and instead of standing by her side he left her.

She battled until the end. To take her mind off the pain and heartache, she began crafting jewelry. The day before the cancer won the war, Po offered an anklet to Melody who vowed to wear it forever.

Po was the reason Melody went to college. Po’s older sister, Melody’s mother, loved her life, touted the satisfactions of taking care of a family, but Melody saw an alternative in Po’s choices. Neither option was inherently wrong, and both women had been mostly happy. Melody made her choice: independence from the whims of men.

Melody, however, may have taken the stance in a direction Po would not have approved. Melody used men before they could use her, before they could leave her. Danny Ottersmith was just another stiff dick that couldn’t tell Melody what to do. Instead, Melody would control him.

Over the previous days and nights, held prisoner in a dusty cellar, she’d questioned those decisions. Had she been more like her mother, or less adamant about living up to her version of Po’s expectations, she’d be in a different place. The current man in her life wouldn’t be a fucknut kidnapper who preyed on girls in need of a ride (figuratively and literally).

Melody had a vague memory of arriving at the house, but the images might only be a dream. From the blur of her recollection, the driveway wound through the trees for a hundred yards or more then opened to another hundred yards of manicured grass. The house, a sprawling mansion by Melody’s standards, sat in the center of the clearing.

Seeing the house flipped the situation from an unfathomable dream to a horrific reality, and Melody crashed back into unconsciousness while the tires still crunched along the gravel driveway. She woke in the basement. She had not heard any signs of another person in the house. She couldn’t even hear Russell moving about except when he came down to deliver her meals. Screams, she suspected, would do no good.

Melody didn’t know exactly how much time had passed or what time it was now. The cell contained no windows, but below the door a sliver of light was slowly brightening. She guessed it to be early morning.

The clang of a latch sounded on the other side of the door.

I heard you moving around a bit last night, said Russell as the door opened noiselessly. He peered inside, a wide grin contrasting the wicked look in his eyes. Were you trying to escape?

Melody scooted along the cot and pressed herself into the corner of the small room. She shivered against the cold cinder blocks.

He stepped inside, looking back intently. Not yet, he said to someone beyond Melody’s sight. Stay ...

That someone must be a dog, her captor’s feral guard.

Still glancing out into the basement, Russell pulled the door until it was almost closed. He really doesn’t want Fido to look in here, she thought. Are you so ashamed of yourself that you can’t show your fucking dog what you’ve done?

Melody examined the door quickly—and for the hundredth time—while his attention remained off her. It looked heavy, thick, but it glided on well-oiled hinges. She could open and shut it with ease. If she could incapacitate him somehow—knock him down for just a moment—she’d be able to slip out the door and slam it. A foot or hand that jutted out to block the door would be crushed against its weight. The pain would be excruciating, and Russell would surely yank the limb back purely by reflex. Then she’d slam the door and get the fuck out of here.

She’d have to contend with the dog, but she had to take this one step at a time. Cross each bridge as she came to it. Get out of the room first. Besides, the dog hadn’t made a single noise, not one growl or bark. It was probably a pansy-ass that would roll over and show her its nuts the second she started—

You won’t be escaping, Russell broke her train of thought. He was glaring at her. He’d seen her scanning the door. You should just put that out of your head.

He reached into a back pocket and produced a short filet knife and twirled the blade in her direction.

Melody screamed.

Russell began to chuckle.

The dog continued to make no noise.

Russell’s laughter stopped before Melody’s screams. He contemplated her the same way her mother had when young Melody would throw a tantrum. He waited for the fit to subside. His attitude had a frustrating yet calming effect. She quieted.

You misunderstand. You will not die today, he assured her. Nor will you be leaving, sorry to say. But, on the bright side, there will no longer be a need for the ropes. He took a step forward. Let’s see your hands.

After a moment’s hesitation, she inched forward and offered her arms. She glimpsed movement—a sliver of a dark shape low to the ground—outside the door. He grabbed one of her wrists and she flinched, at which he gave another chuckle. Then, true to his word, he sawed quickly through the rope. Her arms were free. She rubbed at her wrists.

That must feel much better. Now for your legs.

Was this guy really that stupid? He’d better have a whole kennel of dogs out there, or else she would be reaching the road before he knew what had happened.

She stuck out her legs,