Drift Read online

  Drift

  Rachel Hatch Book One

  LT Ryan

  Brian Shea

  Liquid Mind Media, LLC

  Copyright © 2019 by L.T. Ryan, Liquid Mind Media, LLC, & Brian Christopher Shea. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. For information contact:

  [email protected]

  http://LTRyan.com

  https://www.facebook.com/JackNobleBooks

  Contents

  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

  Downburst

  Downburst Chapter 1

  Downburst Chapter 2

  Downburst Chapter 3

  1

  The small Ford Fiesta had been parked between the large Blue Spruce and massive boulder since nightfall. It was their spot, secluded and hidden from the main road. They’d used it many times before and had grown confident few ventured to this remote section of the lake. Which was why they’d selected it many months back. The smell shrouding the air around them was an obnoxious chemical odor that could burn the lining in your nose. A byproduct of their chosen career path. The openness of their locale managed to mitigate some of the stench, but not all. Even in the rural areas, neighbors took notice of such things. And it was for this reason they’d been careful in their scouting.

  The two men sat on a rock looking out at the lake. The stillness of the water gave a glass-like quality to the surface, serving to bounce the moon’s glow up onto the surrounding hills. More light to work by, but that also meant more light to be spotted by a curious hiker or fisherman.

  Steve Swanson worked a lump of tobacco from the left to the right side of his mouth. “How long we been goin’ at it?”

  “Do I look like a damn clock to you?” Barry Munson shook his head. He was the older of the two by four years, and had somehow become the de facto leader of their operation. A clout he used with increasing frequency to verbally abuse the younger man. “It was dark when we started. Darker now. If you’re so damned concerned about the time, get a watch. If you had one, then you wouldn’t have to ask me every time we took a break.”

  Swanson pulled off his red paisley bandana. Even in the crisp, cool autumn night air, sweat had pooled around the undercarriage of his nostrils. Making the devil’s brew, as he called it, was hard work. His wire-thin mustache was moistened, glimmering like morning dew on a wheat field. He wiped at it absently, transferring the glisten to his forearm as he sought to find a comeback to Munson’s latest taunt. Nothing witty came to him. Nothing ever did. If he was ever to work up the nerve to talk back, it would most likely end with him catching a beating from the bigger man.

  “Just feels like we’ve been burping that last batch forever,” Swanson said.

  “This is the best run we’ve had in a few weeks. Gonna make some good money on this.” Munson thumbed back toward the various pots and glass beakers on the flat rock behind them.

  Tendrils of noxious gas snaked into the air as the pots cooled. The chemical’s reaction peak had fallen off. Once it stopped altogether, they’d dump it and run a new batch. Swanson had learned how to cook meth using a cheap and easy system called the one-pot method. It was a dangerous technique in which all the ingredients were put into the bottom of a big-mouthed bottle of soda. Swanson’s bottle of choice was the one-liter Mountain Dew. The heavy plastic worked well to prevent breakdown during the volatile reaction of lithium and water.

  During the reactive process, a good cook must learn to feel the pressure within by gently squeezing. Like a good chef can press a steak on a grill and know whether it’s medium or well-done, a meth cook needs to have the same ability and know when to “burp” the bottle by opening the cap at the proper interval to release the gas. Swanson’s inability to master this technique is what had indirectly brought Munson and him together.

  About a year ago, Swanson had been doing the one-pot in the woods behind the town’s post office when the bottle he was using exploded. The lithium infused water burned the left side of Swanson’s face and hand. When he woke in the hospital several hours later, he was shocked to find he’d been handcuffed to the metal arm of a medical bed. Apparently, the local deputies didn’t take pity on the burned man. They’d found his stash of finished product and charged him with operating a drug factory. Hard to make the argument the drugs weren’t his when Swanson’s face bore the evidence.

  It was during his stint in the county lockup subsequent to his failed entrepreneurship that Swanson and Munson first met. Much of their time was spent talking women and drugs. Not much else to do when you’re cut off from the outside world. Bonding over their mutual love of crystal methamphetamine, the two would spend hours discussing the best methods for cooking. Comparing epic highs was another pastime, as each tried to outdo the other’s story of drug-induced euphoria. Swanson got out a few weeks earlier than Munson, but the two promised to keep in touch. Swanson kept his word, and when Munson was released, he was there to pick him up. The two had been collaborating in the hopes of expanding their production efforts ever since.

  “Wanna give it a little taste?” Munson asked. Only three teeth were visibly present in the man’s gapped smile.

  If Swanson’s weakness was his cooking technique, then Munson’s was that he couldn’t stop himself from using the product they created. It was a big hiccup in their Breaking Bad scheme to get rich selling crystal. They ended up smoking most of the fruits of their hours of toil, forcing them to resort to their old habits of stealing the necessary ingredients.

  Swanson couldn’t resist the temptation when presented and readily agreed to sample the goods.

  Munson disappeared to the flat rock they’d affectionately named “the lab.” It was a naturally formed, perfectly flat surface they used to set up their homemade chemistry laboratory. The rock’s surface now bore the scars of their work in the stained dye from the Sudafed they used as their source for ephedrine, a key ingredient in their formula.

  Swanson watched as his partner hustled back with a small clear plastic bag in hand, the contents of which looked like broken bits of glass or rock candy. The crystallization process had been completed from the night’s earliest batch and was now ready for consumption. Munson eagerly fished out the glass pipe and lighter from the front pocket of his tattered jeans. The jeans were baggy and hung loose from his diminishing body composition.

  He sat and gently tapped out the small opaque pieces into the base of the pipe’s bowl. The new shards clinked quietly as they landed, coming to rest on the burnt residue. A clear indication of the pipe’s numerous previous uses.

  “We’ll get straight after a couple hits of this, and then get on the next batch.” Munson smiled, exposing missing and cracked teeth, rotten from years of abuse. His lips were chapped, with cottony remnants of dried spit caked into the corners.

  Swanson edged closer like Gol
lum drawn to his Precious. “Sounds like a plan. Fire it up.”

  Munson rolled his callous-burnt thumb across the lighter’s flint wheel. A spark flickered, illuminating his face and casting it in a yellowish orange. The butane was low, and the flame didn’t hold. Munson cursed and slapped the bottom of the metal zippo against the palm of his hand.

  Staring out at the lake, Swanson impatiently waited for the familiar crackle and pop of the heated meth. It was a Pavlovian response and music to his ears. Absentmindedly rubbing the scar tissue on the side of his face, he stared out at the lake. The water’s flatness was shattered as something broke through the surface, sending out concentric ripples from its epicenter.

  “The hell’s that?”

  Munson continued his efforts to light the glass pipe, shooting an angry glance in Swanson’s direction, obviously annoyed by the interruption. He huffed and looked out at the water. “Don’t know. Probably just a log.”

  Swanson squinted, trying to make out the dark shape. “I don’t think so.”

  “What the hell are you talking about now?”

  “I ain’t never seen no log wearing a dress.”

  Swanson stood and looked back at Munson, who was still troubleshooting the lighter, intent on firing up the glass. Swanson didn’t wait for his partner’s approval and began making his way down the uneven terrain toward the lake’s shore, where the body appeared to be drifting.

  It didn’t take long to traverse the distance to the dirt-lined shore. Swanson’s initial interest was driven by a sense of humane purpose, but he found himself stricken by an intangible fear.

  Munson ambled up beside him, wheezing his exertion. “You’re a dumb son of a bitch, you know that?”

  Swanson ignored the comment and the two idled in silence for a pensive moment. The only sound came as the body bobbed, sending minuscule waves that lapped at the shoreline.

  “What’s the plan, hero?” Munson asked.

  “Not sure.”

  The body was drifting on a slow collision course with shore, in a direct line to where the two men now stood. Their worn sneakers sank into the muck.

  “Maybe she’ll sink back under and we can forget we ever saw her.”

  “What?” Swanson knew the older meth addict had spent much of his adult life in and out of correctional facilities from Arizona to Colorado, but hearing his lack of concern for the dead woman shocked him.

  “I’m just saying. Cops and I don’t see eye to eye on too many things. And with my track record, there’s a good chance they’ll assume we had something to do with it.” Munson’s eyes widened and his hand trembled ever so slightly. “I ain’t goin’ to jail on no dead body case!”

  Swanson broke his stare away from the woman and side-eyed his partner. “You really think they’ll pin it on us if we call it in?”

  “You tell me. How’d you like waking up in the hospital to find the police put those charges on you? Did they give you much of a chance to explain yourself?”

  Swanson felt the truth in those words. “Well… then what do we do?”

  Munson played with the lighter still in his hand. He flicked the lid open and closed. The clicking seemed to be a countdown to his decision. It stopped and he spoke. “How about we get a stick and push her back out and away from shore. Maybe she’ll just sink.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “If you’ve got a better idea, I’d be happy to hear it.”

  “We’ll block our number and call the police. Then we’ll get the hell out of Dodge before they get here.”

  Munson took a moment before answering. “Okay. You’re really trying hard to get your junior detective badge out here today, aren’t you, Nancy Drew? Maybe that’s what I’ll call you from now on. Nancy has a nice ring to it.”

  Ignoring the older man, Swanson continued to watch the body. It had edged closer during their debate and was now only a few feet away from shore. The lapping sound grew louder as the splashing became more pronounced. Swanson grabbed a large branch from nearby and walked to the edge of the water.

  “Don’t go touching it. Those cops will sure as shit put this case on you if you do. They’ll have your DNA and you’ll never see the light of day again. Lock you up and throw away the key. Probably make up some story how you killed her ‘cause of your messed-up face.”

  “I’m not going to touch her. Just gonna make sure she’s out of the damn water before we jet. It’s the right thing to do.” Swanson lunged outward with the branch, snagging a bit of the shoulder strap of the woman’s dress. He tugged hard. The woman moved across the remaining three feet of water more rapidly with Swanson’s assistance.

  She was face down. Her wet hair enveloped her head, completely masking her face from view. As the body came to shore, she got stuck in the shallow water.

  Swanson turned to the man behind him. “We gotta pull her out.”

  “We ain’t got to do nothing! I already told you—if you touch her, you might as well have killed her yourself. Do you want to do life in prison for this woman?”

  Swanson thought hard about the question. He looked back at the woman in the water and gave one final effort with the stick. She barely moved.

  “The bloat is gonna hold her. She ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  Swanson tossed the stick as far from her as he could and looked back at his friend. Munson was already moving and had begun his trek back up the hill toward their lab.

  Swanson gave a last look at the woman. Her skin was a milky white and looked more so in the moon’s glow. He likened it to the porcelain dolls his mother collected. His current life choices had estranged her from him, especially when he pawned several pieces of her jewelry and a few of those dolls to get enough money for a fix.

  In this surreal moment with the porcelain woman, he oddly wondered if his mother still missed him.

  He then looked away from the drowned woman and wondered if anybody would miss her.

  2

  She watched the man, just as she’d done for the past hour. He’d been fueling himself with Crown Royal and Coke since she’d arrived. He reeked of it when she entered the bar. Even from where she sat now, it was all she could smell. And he was starting to show the ill effects of his relentless consumption. His glassy eyes bore the signs of intoxication. The man was large, bigger than she’d expected. But that was of limited concern. She’d seen men of his kind many times before. A body built through an intense steroid-backed fitness regimen in his younger days had given way to sloth in his later years. The result was a mass of bulk, made up of more fat than muscle, but the sheer girth would make him a powerful contender.

  Rachel Hatch knew better than to underestimate any opponent, regardless of outward appearance. Threats came in all shapes and sizes. Take her, for example. As a woman, most had concluded she was no danger. Overlooking her proved to be an advantage more often than not. An advantage she would capitalize on tonight.

  The big man’s name was Randy Bosley. She knew this because her neighbor at the motel had told her. Monica was an eighteen-year-old stripper who’d somehow managed to end up in Killeen, Texas, after running away from Montana. Abuse had pushed the girl to leave her home. Sadly, where she ended up hadn’t turned out to be much better.

  She’d met the girl while staying at the Wayside Motel outside of Fort Hood. Ever since leaving the military, Hatch had been on the move, looking for some way to find the point and purpose to life outside the Army. Drifting around the country, she always found comfort in being close to a military installation. The familiarity of the people and places that sprouted around bases reminded her of a time when she belonged. Her most recent trek had brought her to Texas. With winter soon approaching, it seemed like a reasonable place to spend a few weeks or months, depending on how things went. Her last stop had been Fort Benning, Georgia, home of the Army’s Infantry. Hatch only managed to stay a week before a series of unforeseen events caused her to make a hasty departure.

  She’d been staying at the Wayside for n
early ten days when she’d bumped into Monica. The girl was leaning against an out-of-order vending machine and crying hysterically when Hatch walked up. At first Hatch had considered ignoring the girl and continuing on to her room, leaving the girl to sort out whatever life crisis was causing her the emotional breakdown. But when she saw the broken nose and busted lip, Hatch stopped in her tracks.

  Monica was standoffish at first, not accustomed to the helpful offerings of others. Based on what Hatch later learned about her life up to that point, she couldn’t blame her. After some gentle prodding, the girl agreed to let Hatch take a look at the injuries.

  By no means was Hatch an expert at wound care, but she’d had enough field experience to help the girl. The break along the bridge of her nose was relatively straight and, in time, would probably heal with minimal cosmetic change. The girl’s bottom lip was split and two of her teeth were chipped. Hatch tended to the girl, packing the nose and stopping the bleeding. Then, she helped clean up some of the dried blood from her face.

  Monica spent the night in Hatch’s room. There were two twin beds, and Hatch hadn’t had any real social interaction since arriving in Texas and didn’t mind the company. During her stay, Monica told Hatch about her rough upbringing and the reasons for leaving home. Hatch understood, having left home at an early age herself, albeit for different reasons. After listening to the girl’s tragic story, Hatch was glad she’d found her own way in the Army.