Status: Finished

Genre: Literary Fiction



Status: Finished

Genre: Literary Fiction



Doctor Michael Barnes agrees to become the interim Director of the Harry Hope Fertility Clinic.
What he did not agree to was attempted murder, successful murder, black market revenge, as well as constant danger and alarm, all of which originates in his Clinic.
Who knew.
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Doctor Michael Barnes agrees to become the interim Director of the Harry Hope Fertility Clinic.
What he did not agree to was attempted murder, successful murder, black market revenge, as well as constant danger and alarm, all of which originates in his Clinic.
Who knew.

Chapter48 (v.1) - CREEPING JUSTICE

Author Chapter Note

Electra and Tom continue their mission.
Tony Wales is tongue-tied by Fiona' s questions regarding his accumulating the wealth of Croesus for the Wales families.
Riddick Malcolm is summoned by the boss to talk over measures to turn off the fan.

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: February 10, 2017

Reads: 57

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: February 10, 2017




A Serial

Nicholas Cochran

 Chapter Forty-Eight


Riddick Malcolm parked in the empty garage and walked across the glimmering grass to the front door. Invisible hands slid a bolt, opened the door, and closed it behind Malcolm.

“You know the way, sir, I believe,” the unctuous Jamison murmured, as he withdrew into shadows created by heavy drapes drawn across the path of the hot sun of an August afternoon.

“Thank you, Jamison, I do.” Malcolm took a left and proceeded down the hall toward the number of doors, gates, and passages necessary to meet the boss.

Once seated in an extraordinarily comfortable chair, Malcolm accepted the offered whisky and without a toast, he raised his glass and took in all the liquid. The boss poured him another one.

“Jesus; do you really have to wear all this crap while I’m here talking with you? I know you for Christ’s sake and have for decades; I mean, well, it’s unsettling; like I’m not sure you’re really in there with all this stuff.”

The stuff that Malcolm was referring to was a complete black garment—not unlike a niqab—that fell to the floor. The boss’s head was totally covered except for holes for the eyes and the mouth. The voice-altering device sat on a small table. Long attachments allowed the boss free movement.

“I like it Riddick. It fits with my position in the organization. By that I mean that I feel much better when I remove myself as far a possible from my real life and take on the practical life of a person heading a large organization.”

“Well it gives me the creeps. Like some goddamned James Bond person. Plus, it hides you; who I prefer to see uncovered; always have. Well, anyway,” drawing a pack of Chesterfields from his shirt pocket. “Do you mind?” He held his lighter at the ready.

“Of course not. But please don’t offer me one. It’s been forty years, as you know, and I would still enjoy one; but, no. Go ahead.”

Riddick lit up, inhaled deeply, sighed and began.

“Boss. Some serious shit has hit the fan and you and I have to turn off the fan.”

* *  *

Bill Richardson had just had the course; he was ‘coming out’ and while he made this determination, he sensed an ending.

His care in the two safe-houses; the food, the medical care; the conversation with the members; all of it, he appreciated. Nevertheless, he wanted to be out poking his nose into peoples’ affairs; finding a new puzzle to solve, a new enigma to unravel. 

His favorite retreat in the safe-house retreats, were the pages chronicling the adventures and peculiar cases of Sherlock Holmes. Of course, he realized that Sherlock was a brilliant concoction of Sir Arthur. However, Bill found more than a buzz of adventure and suspense in the works. 

He identified precisely and completely with Sherlock’s several moods while caught in the doldrums of inactivity. He, like Sherlock, needed a piece of granite to chisel away at; a new case; a new adventure; ‘a game that was afoot’. 

This last thought of Bill’s reminded him that there was one hell of a big game afoot and he, Bill, was stuck away on the other side of the Bay from it. 

This irksome burr under his emotional saddle eventually forced him to call together all his kind ‘keepers’ and announce that he had to get over there to help the Clinic—and especially, Tom. He ‘was needed’ to round up the bad guys and take out the killers.

After that, he didn’t care where he was. He would probably return to the East Bay where, he repeated, he enjoyed their cooking much more than the San Luis house and a damn galaxy away from his own feeble attempts with broth and spoon. 

Everyone gave him a cheer—and his .38—as well as body armor.

At first, the vest felt cumbersome. However, once Bill considered two of the individuals he would be chasing, he voiced his appreciation with emphatic sincerity. After shakes and hugs all around, he left.

His hosts retrieved his car from a secure garage four blocks away.

Bill Richardson, with guns and a bulletproof vest, together with a full load of enthusiasm, burned a little rubber as he pulled away from his group of waving Angels.

Once released from the maze of back streets, Bill checked the condition of the three iPhones docked on his dash, as well as a couple of burner phones the Angels dropped into his pockets. He called Fiona.

“I know some heavy shit is coming down, ‘Ona; I’m back. I even have a bulletproof vest for Christ sake. I’m amped.”

“Bill; you sound wonderful. Good care?”

“The best. Great food and primo booze. And, of course, the smokes. You know, ‘Ona, maybe I could drop by 24 Hour and do a workout before we meet up.”

Fiona hesitated. 

“Gotcha, ‘Ona,” laughed Bill, “I’ll come to the office. How’s Brett doing?”

“Extremely well. He has cabin fever too. You might want to stop by and see him.

"He’d really like that. You two can talk about next steps. Tactics.

"Oh, by the by, Tom and Electra are off on some mission. Neither would tell me much because they weren’t sure if they were really going to follow through. I have their numbers if you want to call them.” She sent them to Bill.

“Michael’s found the mole in the Clinic. They’re having a party. One of the Nurses is marrying a Spanish Grandee. I didn’t know they still had such people. Anyway, that and Doctor Brand moving off site, and . . . shall I go on?”
“Yeah; of course. I’ve been out of it for too long. The more the better—whatever. Yes. Thanks ‘Ona.”

“Well, a friend I have in the FBI office called me and said that the main office took in a couple of people; a husband and wife; from a super-sperm organization.”

“Sounds like a Witness Pro Program,” offered Bill.

“I agree. Don’t know which ones, but I expect it’s Tarquin and June. I’ll know by sundown. Oh, by the way. I’ll have to tell you how Uncle Christian and sonny boy Tony really made their money out of his worldwide gig. Not what you’d expect . . . or, now, maybe I would.”

“I should be there in half an hour. I’ll come to your office; okay?”

“I’ll be here. Watch yourself, Bill, some assassins get extremely pissed when one of their failures flounces around in public for all to see.”

Bill laughed and disconnected.

*  *  *

Electra moved into the hedge. Tom made a mental note to ask her how the hell she did that.

 He was musing about her ability when he saw a middle-aged man in shorts and a tee walking a dachshund. While Tom was considering this sight, he noticed that the man was not only buffed but also there was a bulge in his back near his beltline.

Like Jimmy Stewart in “Rear Window”, he semi-cried out; immediately choked all sound, and began to sweat.  He couldn’t tell if Ellie saw the man or not. He couldn’t see Ellie, so maybe this guy would just walk past.

Kee-rist. There’s another one, from the other direction. Shit.

This second man was also wearing casual clothes, chinos and a blue polo shirt. 

He was strolling while reading a newspaper. Tom’s suspicions were fully confirmed when neither man acknowledged the other, as though talking to—or even greeting—another person on the deserted street, would somehow tip off any lookers that they knew each other.

The opposite effect resulted, such that even an old lady looking out her window would immediately conclude that the two men not only knew one another but also were definitely not what they seemed to be; at least not what they were trying to pass off as; two total strangers.

The two men maintained their strides, passed each other without a word and continued on along the hedge of the vast estate. After the two disappeared around their respective corners, out popped Ellie and motioned for Tom to join her,. He strode across the street and sidled up to her.

“What’s up?  

*  *  *

 Fiona Barnes repeated her question on cross-examination of Tony Wales.

“All this wealth . . . rivaling the wealth of Croesus, you acquired all this based on what you’ve told us, Tony. Did I miss something?

“No; not really, Fiona.”

Fiona Barnes had not reached the top rank of professional cross-examination experts in Criminal Defense law by not recognizing someone who is holding back.

She read it a couple of minutes after Tony began but waited to plant it squarely in front of him now.

When he had nothing more to add to his explanation.

When his mother and father—and I—were definitely convinced that he had outlined the very reasonable procedures he had carried out with Tarquin’s and June’s assistance to gather such staggering wealth.

Tony Wales was tongue-tied.

I could almost hear the wheels in the reasoning area of his brain trying to find a way to escape this woman’s obvious belief that he was leaving something out of his grand scheme to enrich himself, his family, and his parents.

His face became angular. The handsome copper-colored skin of his face and hands began to fade.

Something was telling him that this woman would not stop questioning, digging, persisting, until she was satisfied that he had told all.

Fiona Barnes was now, after the passing of a few seconds, perceived as his enemy.

She could ruin him and his parents.

He began to panic. With a noticeably shaking hand, he guided his drink to his mouth where he took in the alcohol with one giant swallow.

Fiona sat with her hands clasped in her lap looking very relaxed, until you looked at her eyes.

They were glittering with the blazes of insistence.

Tony gulped as he poured himself another three fingers of scotch.

Christian leaned forward, picking up the altered vibes.

Melinda also moved closer to hear her son’s answer to Fiona’s question.


End of Chapter Forty Eight

© Copyright 2017 Nicholas Cochran. All rights reserved.


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