When New York resident Scott Myles reads the news in the Martinique newspaper that Susannah Crawford has died, he picks up the telephone and calls his brother, Gavin Harrison. With Susannah's death, Scott is finally free of this deceitful woman who has blackmailed him for the last nine years. Scott can finally reveal to his family that he is alive, not dead as they had presumed.
Truth, Lies, and Revelations
By Nicholas Ralph MorganiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Nicholas Ralph Morgan
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4502-9517-8Contents
Chapter 1 Scott Myles................................1Chapter 2 Nine Years Earlier.........................21Chapter 3 The Dinner Party...........................41Chapter 4 The Affair.................................58Chapter 5 Deception..................................84Chapter 6 Barty......................................111Chapter 7 The Picnic.................................132Chapter 8 Duped......................................149Chapter 9 Prison.....................................165Chapter 10 The Perfect Murder........................182Chapter 11 Mutilation................................198Chapter 12 Private Eye...............................218Chapter 13 One down: One to go.......................233Chapter 14 Carmen....................................248Chapter 15 Forgiveness?..............................265Chapter 16 An Unsuspecting Twist.....................284
Chapter One
Scott Myles
You should not be doing business on Christmas Day.
Drake's murderous adrenalin was rampant. It had been weeks since his last murder. Agitated yet excited, the stout fellow left his home. Of course he ensured to take the cricket bat with him. Who would suspect it was his trusted weapon? Forensics would have a field day if they ever examined the infamous cricket bat. The wooden fibres retained the blood of each victim. What a murderous trophy. He was proud of his sporting weapon and the abstract bloodstains enriched its beauty. The unassuming villain sensed that one day his pride and joy would be on display in London's macabre museum. He would be forever caught in history. What an honour!
The time was just after 1am. It had rained all evening but now the clouds had parted and the moon was shining brightly. The recalcitrant murderer waited in the dark alley, hiding behind an overgrown oak tree. Drake had lost count of how many times he had waited beneath Mother Nature's exuberant generosity. How ironic to wait under a tree that gives us oxygen, the birth of life, when he was so eager to extinguish that life. Drake was proud and had nicknamed himself Drake Dracula. The taste of blood was refreshing. He breathed deeply. The smell of cut grass was prevalent. Soon the smell of death would be even better. He had not waited long when he heard footsteps approaching. He tucked the cricket bat under his arm as he stepped out of the alley. A six-foot gent was walking towards him. A perfect victim, he thought. Drake was hungry for the thrill of death. The gent's tall stature posed no threat. In fact Drake welcomed the challenge. He may only be five-foot five inches tall, but the added strength and vigour of his cricket bat enabled him to maintain supremacy.
The nefarious little man smiled at his victim as the gent passed by. They briefly made eye contact. People say the eyes are the window to the soul, but they are also the lock to many secrets. The gent was completely unaware of his looming fate. How deceptive Drake's passing smile had been. That euphoric moment had arrived. Gripped with adrenalin, the pernicious Drake Dracula swung the cricket bat from under his arm and bashed the gent on the head. Oh what a buzz Drake got as the gent fell to his knees. It seemed too easy, but the task was far from over. Death loomed closer as the excited fellow wielded the cricket bat for a second bash. The gent fell to his front but the cricket bat had not finished. It was almost as if the bat had a will of its own. Blood splattered everywhere. Several more blows and the gent's skull was crushed. Now that the goal of death had been scored once more, it was time for his murderous dessert. In true Dracula style, Drake savoured the seconds as he licked the blood from the cricket bat. The taste enriched him ...
Scott Myles closed his crime novel. The fictional story seemed too farfetched. The cricket bat murders failed to ease his troubled mind. He dropped the book on the Martinique newspaper as he stood up from the table. Sometimes he wished that his life was just pure fiction. Why had he made so many mistakes? No doubt if his life was a novel, some would think it farfetched if they read it. Scott Myles finished his whisky then walked across his small living room. He knew he could not put off the inevitable any longer; he had to make that telephone call.
The gurgling sounds of his six-month old baby boy distracted him. Toby lay in his cot in the far corner. His gloating father who had risen to the challenge of being a single parent picked him up. Perhaps this bundle of joy was the only good thing to emerge from the dire events of the last nine years, but perhaps his estranged family would think otherwise.
Scott Myles cradled his son as he looked out of his apartment window. His humble abode was situated on the twentieth floor. He had a panoramic view of New York. The Statue of Liberty stood proud and triumphant. It was a symbol to the whole world of justice, peace and freedom, a liberty that was every human's right. But that was not the case for Scott Myles. He stared at the monumental statue that endorsed the irony of liberty that was now his life. Yes he had freedom to move about, go shopping, perform the mundane duties of his job, but Scott Myles was living a lie. Where is freedom when you do not live the life you should? He was trapped in an alien world. He missed his family and the life he used to have. Circumstances had robbed him of his true liberty, yet he only had himself to blame.
His open plan apartment was nowhere near as lavish or representative of how Scott Myles used to live. It contained all the usual décor and furnishings. A second hand settee, which had seen better days, faced the panoramic window. Behind was a table, which served two purposes, one side to eat off, the other to read his newspaper from. To the left was an archway that led into the kitchen, to the right his bedroom. His job at the New York Herald enabled him to pay the monthly rent. Who would have thought that at one time he had owned his own place, had his own business and was considered to be very wealthy. Those bon vivant years now seemed so far away.
The frost-covered rooftops glistened in the sun's morning rays. The wintry dawn was picturesque and fitting for this Christmas Morn. Scott Myles had no pre-arranged plans so expected to spend Christmas Day in his rented apartment, just looking after his baby. A CD player broke the silence, playing the traditional Christmas carols and songs. His mind was full of memories as he listened, his eyes a little watery as a result of sentiment and guilt. The morning sunlight caught his side profile as he surveyed the Manhattan skyline. His once tanned complexion had become paler. His once thick black wavy hair was now completely grey. The emotional and stressful years had allowed middle age to prematurely seize his body. Scott Myles looked ten years older than he actually was. If someone had foretold that his life would end up caught in poverty and old before his time then he would not have believed them. He thought his youth and vitality would last forever, not to mention his lavish lifestyle, but then he had been too complacent.
Scott Myles moved away from the window and replaced Toby in his cot. The little angelic infant had fallen asleep again. What would Toby surmise if he knew the true circumstances of his existence? Those questions would not be asked just yet, thank goodness, and after the death of his mother the sole parental responsibility lay with Scott Myles. He would protect his son and say what white lies he could.
Scott Myles resumed his seat at the table. He had not long eaten breakfast. An empty bowl that had been used for cereal remained beside the newspaper. Scott Myles picked up his novel as if to read more about the cricket bat murders, but he could not, as he was unable to concentrate. He placed the book to one side. Instead, he glanced at the weekly Martinique newspaper which was still opened at the relevant article. The very article he had read several times. The plight of Gavin Harrison and the death of Susannah Crawford were sensationalised in the first few pages. The only remaining link Scott Myles had with the Caribbean island of Martinique was the weekly chronicle. The newspaper had arrived yesterday, Christmas Eve. He only began reading it late last night. Ever since then his mind could not rest. Scott Myles silently wept as he re-read the in-depth article relating to Gavin Harrison, a local business tycoon who had wrestled with death and the psychopathic killer Susannah Crawford. The editorial had made the comparison between Joan of Arc who was burned at the stack with that of Susannah meeting her fiery demise on Gavin's yacht. The article also mentioned Susannah's several attempts to kill Gavin, listing those she had killed in the process including Angelo Esteros, Eletsi Tapica, Jeswana Beauvais, Ursula and Godwin Chambers, Tor Hegland and Gavin's brother Greg Harrison. Plus how Susannah had caused the avalanche at Snøby, Gavin's ski resort, killing over fifty people including Gavin's lifelong friend Karl Stevens. The story also told how Susannah had been convicted of murder but had managed to escape from prison.
Scott Myles cried as he read through the editorial. The catastrophic truth seemed unbearable. He felt guilty, yet how could he make things right? Perhaps now that the evil Susannah was dead he stood a chance. He had meant to contact Gavin sooner, but as time had elapsed it seemed harder to do. But then again Susannah had controlled him. How she had enjoyed applying her fiendish and manipulative streak, such was her blackmail. How could he have been so stupid? Would Gavin ever forgive him? Under the weight of his troubled conscience Scott Myles sighed heavily. Why had he allowed Susannah's twisted judgement to influence him? Yet he had to admit that he had inadvertently encouraged her manipulative streak.
Scott Myles had deferred contacting Gavin long enough. All morning he had mulled over what to say and how to explain everything. Let spontaneity rule the moment. All he hoped was that Gavin would listen to him.
"I know you will hate me for this Gavin," muttered Scott Myles. He picked up his mobile from the table and speed dialled Gavin's number. He waited nervously for Gavin to answer.
"Hello," said Veronique. Scott Myles recognised her soft dulcet tones. It felt good to hear her voice again, but it was Gavin he must speak to first. Regardless of all previous wrongs, it had to be right that Gavin should be the first person to know the truth.
"Hi there," replied Scott Myles, accentuating his American accent. "Can I speak with Gavin please?"
"Of course, he is just outside. I'll get him for you," replied Veronique courteously. "May I ask who is calling?"
"Scott Myles," he replied. Veronique noticed his American accent and assumed he was an overseas client. She went to call Gavin, who was at Greg's graveside paying his respect. Scott Myles stood up and moved away from the table. He paced back and forth. His agitation did not abate as he waited for Gavin to come to the telephone. Through the earpiece he could hear distant sounds in the background. Scott Myles tried to remain composed, yet he was fully aware of the shattering revelation he was about to deliver. "Please forgive me Gavin," he whispered.
"Hello and Merry Christmas," said Gavin, having rushed to the telephone. "And I do not want to buy a gun or anything else."
"Hello Gavin and I am so sorry but I hope you will let me explain," replied Scott Myles nervously. There was a time when Gavin would instantly have recognised the voice, but it had been many years and Scott Myles had acquired an American twang. He had purposely cultivated a profound New York dialect. It was an essential requirement for Scott Myles to blend in with the Yanks. But now at last he could speak more freely.
"Who is this?" questioned Gavin.
"It's me Gavin, it's Greg. I faked my death. Please let me explain."
"Who is this?" demanded Gavin. "Is this a sick joke?"
"No Gavin, it is really me, please don't hang up. I am your brother Greg."
"You can't be Greg. Why are you doing this?"
"It is me Gavin, listen to me, you must recognise my voice."
"My brother is dead. Who the hell are you?"
"I'm not dead. Remember our holidays in Weymouth as kids; I pinched your swimming trunks because I had forgotten mine. And our pet rabbit Bundles. Please Gavin you must let me explain, I have wanted to do so for years." Gavin stared in front as he listened. The more Greg spoke, the more his acquired American accent faded.
"What happened on your tenth birthday?" quizzed Gavin.
"I broke my arm, fell off my new bike." Greg did not need to say any more. Gavin recognised his brother's voice.
"Greg what the hell have you done?" stated Gavin. Was he imagining this? He would have said more but he was in shock.
"It is good to hear your voice Gavin. I know this must be a shock and you will hate me."
"Why did you do this?" interrupted Gavin abruptly, scarcely knowing what to say. Greg continued to speak but Gavin could only grasp isolated phrases. The moment was too surreal.
"It was Susannah, she was blackmailing me," informed Greg. "Please come to New York, that's where I live now. For obvious reasons I cannot travel to Martinique. I can't explain everything over the telephone. Anyway, how are you?"
"How am I?" said Gavin. "I have been grieving for over six years for my dead brother, who died in my arms, and all this time you were alive. How could you do this to me? What the hell possessed you to be so deceiving? Have you any idea the pain you have caused?" Greg allowed Gavin to vent his anger. The comments were hurtful but to be expected. "And why did you not contact me sooner?" demanded Gavin. Gavin felt guilty for being angry. How many times had he yearned to speak with Greg once more? All those times speaking at his graveside, now beyond the wildest imagination they were having a real conversation, no longer fictitious in Gavin's mind, yet he had to express his feelings.
"I am so sorry," cried Greg. "But it has been hell for me too. Susannah blackmailed me and I could not figure out what to do for the best. At one time I almost killed her."
"What has Susannah got to do with this?" questioned Gavin.
"Please say you will come to New York and let me explain. I know it's Christmas Day so there won't be a flight for a few days, but come before New Year. I need to see you," pleaded Greg.
"Why can't you tell me now? You can't ring up then leave me in suspense!"
"It really would take too long, and I wouldn't know where to begin to tell it briefly, except I was foolish, stupid, dense and deserve all the hate you can give me. Please come to New York."
"I will, I will come," responded Gavin. He could not refuse his brother's request; besides, he needed to know the full situation. "I'm married to Veronique now."
"I know you are. I have kept up to date with your life, if not from Susannah then from what I read in the Martinique Chronicle. I have it delivered every week," replied Greg.
"Have you been with Susannah all this time, helping her to kill me?" presumed Gavin angrily.
"No, no, of course not. That is why I tried to kill her, to stop her from hurting you, but I did not succeed. Please don't hate me Gavin, I need you," replied Greg emotionally.
"This is definitely a shock. I am lost for words, but I am glad you are alive," said Gavin. "This is gonna be some explaining on your part and it better be good."
"I know and I will tell you everything, even though some of it you will hate me for, but my life can't be any worse than it already is," confessed Greg. "Come to New York as soon as you can, in the next couple of days. I'll give you my telephone number." Gavin wrote the number on his desk pad.
"How are you anyway?" asked Gavin.
"Like a huge weight has been lifted from me now I am speaking to you, and the fact that Susannah is dead," replied Greg. "I can't wait to see you."
"Same here, but I think Veronique will want to travel with me, is that ok?"
"Sure of course it is, just get here as soon as you can."
"I still cannot believe I am talking to you. After all this time."
"I know; it is strange for me too. I would give anything for things to be as they were," reflected Greg.
"I was at your graveside earlier saying to have you back would be the best Christmas present ever. Never expected it to happen."
"I am sorry for all the hurt I have caused you, but I just messed up big time and paid the price ever since," relayed Greg. "How is Rebecca?"
"She has a broken heart over you and now the death of her parents."
"I don't think she will ever forgive me. Is she not seeing anyone?"
"No she is not. Shall I tell her you are alive?"
"As much as I would love that it cannot be. If people know I am alive then I am likely to be arrested. By the way my name is officially Scott Myles and I am a New York citizen."
"You have a false identity?" questioned Gavin.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Truth, Lies, and Revelationsby Nicholas Ralph Morgan Copyright © 2011 by Nicholas Ralph Morgan. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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