The Color of Wounds Read online

  Copyright 2020 by Francis S. Martorana

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the prior written permission of the publisher:

  VinChaRo Ventures

  3300 Judd Road

  Cazenovia, NY 13035

  [email protected]

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-99893-264-4 (print)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019920430

  ISBN: 978-0-99893-265-1 (ebook)

  Cover designed and illustrated by Amanda and

  Sebastian Martorana

  Sebastianworks.com

  Author photo by Rosemary Martorana

  Printed in the United States of America

  Also in the Kent Stephenson Thriller Series

  Taking on Lucinda

  Simpatico’s Gift

  In memory of

  Sebastian V. and Carrie Mae Martorana

  Acknowledgments

  Over the years that it took to write this series, countless clients, friends, and acquaintances, close and casual, have contributed when, often unbeknownst to them, I picked their brains. I can’t possibly name them all without embarrassing errors of omission, so I won’t try, but I do thank them all deeply. There are some I just have to give special acknowledgment because they contributed so much and in ways that, if they had not, this book would never have been written, much less published. Thanks to Garda Parker, Rhoda Lerman, and S. V. Martorana, all three world-class authors, for neither laughing nor rolling their eyes when they first read my manuscripts. Thanks to Alicia Bazan-Jemenez, Sylvia Bakker-Moss, Deborah Fallon, Mark Andrews, Felicia Lalomia, Andy Olson, Jeannine Gallo, Jeff and Julie Rubenstein, and Ken Frehm for assorted advice and technical support. Marlene Westcott, you are truly the Word Wizard. Sebastian and Amanda Martorana, what you do with the covers is amazing. Editors, Celia Johnson and Mona Dunn, I thank you for finding my many errors and doing the polishing. Rosemary Martorana, you get special thanks for always smiling and showing great patience while solving my many logistics issues. Last, but never least, there is my wife, Ann Marie. I don’t know how you put up with me through it all, honey, but I’m sure glad you do.

  A man that studieth revenge

  keeps his own wounds green.

  Francis Bacon

  (1561-1626)

  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

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 1

  Fall 1997

  Aubrey Fairbanks pulled Kent’s Cherokee to a stop in front of the Compassion Veterinary Center. With great effort, Kent rotated his head to observe the workmen on scaffolds, repairing the blackened third story of his animal hospital.

  “They look like ants all over a piece of cheese.”

  “Forget it,” Aubrey said. “They’ll have it back to where you’ll never know anything happened.”

  “I’ll always know something happened.”

  His neck muscles crackled like a thousand tiny rubber bands snapping as he turned his head to fix his eyes on the statue of the great stallion, Simpatico. Afternoon light played off it perfectly—life size, deep bronze. It was the centerpiece of the park in front of the CVC.

  “A thing of beauty,” he said. There was reverence in his voice.

  “Yes. It is.”

  “It’s an incredible relief just to see it there.”

  Aubrey’s gaze shifted into soft focus as she stared at the horse. “We almost lost it.”

  “First they took his life. This time they almost got our monument to him.” Kent started to release a sigh, but his breath caught on fractured ribs, and he eased the air out carefully. “Thank God we were able to stop the bastard.”

  “Someday it will be a great story to tell.”

  “Not in this lifetime.”

  She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You’ll see.”

  He forced a smile even though the plastic surgeon had warned him not to. Instantly he let it drop as tiny subcuticular sutures in his face became red-hot wires.

  Aubrey smothered a giggle. “Sorry. But at least you have an excuse for being a grouch.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  She knew he could deal with pain. He would be okay. Just a matter of time. She was entitled to laugh.

  She slipped out her door and opened the tailgate. Turning around was an impossibility, but Kent could tell by the clatter that she was unfolding a wheelchair.

  Kent Stephenson in a wheelchair. Mid-forties, six feet tall and fit—and in a wheelchair. The doctors assured him it would only be for a few weeks if—and this was the important part—if he followed their instructions.

  Aubrey’s voice pulled him back to more pleasant thoughts. “Here they come.”

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think?”

  He worked his neck back around in time to see the horde of smiling well-wishers descending on them.

  “You didn’t have to do this.”

  “Emily and the girls in the office insisted. And they did most of the work. It gave us all something to do while we were waiting for you to wake up.”

  The Cherokee began to shudder as if struck by a small earthquake.

  Kent cut his eyes hard left, giving it his best effort to look over his shoulder. “Take it easy, girl. Wait for some help.”

  Lucinda, his redbone coonhound, had been resting in the back seat, but the sound of voices was more than she could stand. Her eyes sparkled, her tail thumped. Every ounce of her ninety pounds quivered with eagerness to greet the gold mine of petters. Injuries be damned. She wanted out.

  Someone in the crowd recognized her plight and was about to open the door for her when Aubrey’s son, Barry, appeared.

  “Wait. Let me get her. Remember she’s all beat up. She’s got to stay quiet even if she doesn’t want to.”

  He hefted her into his arms. The onlookers gasped when they got a better look—a swollen eye, multiple sutured skin wounds, and a cast on her front leg.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Barry said. “And you can’t even see the worst part. Her
pelvis is fractured, too.”

  He carried Lucinda to a blanket in the shade. The second he set her down, she was engulfed in a throng of cooing, stroking dog lovers. She turned back to look at Kent in the car, total devotion on her face. With her eyes, she told him, “Okay, I’m set. You can go do your thing.”

  Emily appeared at the Cherokee’s window. “Hi, Doc.” She leaned inside and gave her father a kiss.

  “I understand you are behind this, too,” he said.

  “I know how you love being the center of attention.”

  “Uh-huh. My loyal daughter.”

  “Looks like everyone made it,” Aubrey said, as she worked the wheelchair closer to Kent’s door.

  Emily patted Kent’s shoulder. “A homecoming picnic for the boss. Who would want to miss that?”

  He gave her the side-eye.

  A deep voice came from behind them. “Let me help you with that slab of plaster.”

  Aubrey recognized the voice and turned to greet Police Chief Merrill Stephenson. His arms in midnight blue uniform engulfed her in a hug.

  “Can you get him?” Aubrey asked, when he freed her. “He’s pretty awkward.”

  “He’s been awkward his whole life. I know, I grew up with him.” Merrill shrugged some slack into his shirt and leaned into the Cherokee. “Scoot forward,” he ordered his brother.

  “I’m not your prisoner.”

  “You are for now.”

  “Careful, you two,” Aubrey said. “Watch the cast on his leg. Make sure the cast doesn’t catch.”

  Merrill reached behind Kent, grasped both armpits, and manhandled him into the wheelchair.

  “Jesus, Merrill. You’re going to have me back in the hospital.”

  “You ain’t heavy. You’re my brother.” Then, with a gentleness that was rare for Merrill, he said, “Good to have you back.”

  Kent steered the conversation into a more comfortable realm. “I owe you a couple of boxes of shotgun shells.”

  “Forget it. It was like old times.” Merrill pulled up an imaginary shotgun and swung it in an arc overhead shooting invisible birds. “Kind of like duck hunting with old Aaron Whitmore.”

  “Ducks don’t shoot back. I owe you, big time.”

  Merrill pushed his brother along the sidewalk into the park, Aubrey at his side. From his low vantage point, Kent admired the way she moved. Her energy was contagious. He reached up and hooked a finger in the pocket of her jeans. She glanced down, kissed her fingertips, then squeezed his hand.

  Barry caught up with them.

  “Hey, Doc. You look like one of those hit-by-car dogs in ICU.”

  “I feel like one. Did you get Lucinda situated?”

  “Oh, yeah. She’s in good hands. Half the CVC staff is petting her.”

  “You look tall from down here.”

  Barry rubbed the logo of his Rusted Root T-shirt. “It’s all that great vegetarian stuff I eat.”

  Kent cringed. He looked up at Aubrey then back to Barry, anticipating the rise from Aubrey. It came.

  She said, “Yeah, right, sonny boy. You think I don’t know exactly what goes into you guys’ stomachs?”

  Kent gave the boy an exaggerated stern look. “Listen to your mother, Barry. It’s important for good health that you make wise food choices.” Then under his breath he said, “When you get a chance, grab me a hamburger. I need one bad.”

  Barry smile. “Sick of hospital food?”

  “Everything on it. Mustard, ketchup, onions —everything.”

  At the base of the Simpatico statue, several long tables had been set for dish-to-pass dining. CVC employees bustled around stirring, seasoning, and taste-testing a spread of salad bowls and Crock-Pots. The aromas of country cooking drifted in the afternoon breeze. Kent’s mouth watered.

  He rolled through the crowd acknowledging condolences, fielding questions about his injuries, and bantering with good-natured wiseacres who hoped he had enough teeth left to eat the meal they were slaving over.

  A bottle of beer, dripping with condensation, appeared over his shoulder. You need a straw for this?” Merrill said.

  “Have you got one?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll show you how much I need one.”

  Kent leaned back, ignoring the fire in his neck, and swilled the bottle.

  The crowd cheered.

  The cold froth felt wonderful as it splashed down his throat. It was his first since the explosion and he pulled long swallows, celebrating the end of the pointless destruction and hideous loss of life that had occurred in the last weeks.

  He raised his empty bottle. “To the Simpatico statue and the Compassion Veterinary Center.”

  Kent tapped his bottle to Merrill’s. “I’m starving. Roll me to the food.”

  The sun was setting, conversations were waning, and folks were heading to their cars, bowls in hand.

  Kent sat low in the chair, dangling his arm so that his fingers brushed Lucinda’s shoulders, and enjoying a moment alone with her.

  When Aubrey approached, he tapped a folding chair for her to sit. “Nice little welcome back.”

  “So, you admit it.”

  “I confess. I enjoyed it.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m okay. But I’m ready to go when you are.”

  “I’ll find Merrill and we’ll get you loaded,” she said, but didn’t get up. She followed his gaze to the statue. “You know, I thought that bronze was going to be a little too much when Elizabeth told me what she had in mind, but I like it now.”

  Kent kept his eyes fixed on the statue. “It looks regal. Simpatico was regal.”

  “It’s really him, isn’t it? His head, legs, tail set, they’re perfect. The artist did a fantastic job.”

  “It’s the eyes. She caught the look in his eyes.” After a moment he said, “I miss him.”

  “He was a good friend.”

  “He is the most remarkable horse I ever knew.”

  “At least we still have the statue to remind us of him.”

  “It’s a wonderful tribute. I’m glad Elizabeth offered it to the CVC. She could just as well have let it stand at VinChaRo.”

  “She knows how we all felt about him.”

  When Kent spoke again, his voice was tight. “We almost lost it. Such a vicious, selfish crime. You just can’t explain what goes on inside someone’s head.”

  “Murders, lives ruined. Pieces of the town’s history lost forever. It’s hard to believe it really happened.”

  Kent looked past the statue to the gaping hole in the CVC’s facade. The worker ants had quit for the day. Their scaffolding covered the front like a vine. “Maybe I should have them leave a scar or two, so we don’t forget.”

  Aubrey shook her head. “No. Fix it all. I don’t want any reminders of that part.”

  For a while longer the two of them watched the setting sun remodel Simpatico’s contours.

  Finally, Aubrey said, “All of it happened because of some weird experiments. Seems like yesterday and it seems like a century ago.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Winter 1988

  It was just past noon when Kent landed. He drifted along with the crowd, working his way toward the main terminal and marveled at the balmy green scenery outside the concourse’s plate-glass windows. A sign overhead blinked WELCOME TO HOUSTON, TEXAS. 78° AND SUNNY. THANK YOU FOR FLYING USAIR.

  Just a few hours ago he had been in Central New York’s predawn winter ferocity—swirling white, turned-up collar, be sure you have your hat and gloves. Now, lugging around his overcoat was a nuisance. Even his sport jacket felt like too much.

  He rose onto his tiptoes and craned a look around. Where was Loren? She was supposed to meet him at the gate. Her flight from Washington was scheduled to arrive before his by a
couple of hours. When they spoke last week, they had agreed to meet at Kent’s arrival gate.

  He continued along the promenade until he found a monitor. Yes, Flight 783 from Washington arrived on time.

  He returned to his gate and waited another twenty minutes. He was considering subjecting Loren to the embarrassment of a page, when he heard his name called from the direction of the main terminal.

  He turned to see Loren weaving her way toward him against the flow of pedestrians. When she reached him, she released her bags and threw both arms around his neck.

  “Kent Stephenson. It’s been so long!” she said, moaning the words. “It’s wonderful to see you. You look great!”

  He returned her hug.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I lost track of time. How was your flight? Were you waiting long? I hope not.”

  “I’m good. I knew you’d show up.” He held her out at arm’s length. “And you look awesome.”

  Loren Summer was tall and slender. Her golden tresses that he remembered from their college days were now cropped to a shorter, more professional length and highlighted. Red lipstick accentuated her naturally full lips, which bent easily into a smile, though it seemed a little more forced than it used to. She looked more than just airport tired. Deeper, overworked tired. Even so, she was still a charmer in her above-the-knee business suit.

  “My plane got in at ten-thirty and I figured an hour and a half was too long to sit at your gate.” She laughed at her own audacity. “So I found a cocktail lounge that opened early and waited there.”

  It was then that Kent first detected the musty essence of Scotch on her breath.

  “Ah, some things never change,” he said, and there was genuine fondness in his tone. “Loren the wild woman. Hard driving, hard drinking. Party with the best of them, Loren.”

  She made an embarrassed sound. “I can still hang in there. But not like the old days.”

  “That’s reassuring. Let’s grab something to eat. I’m starved. They don’t feed you much on the plane anymore.”

  “Sorry, we gotta run. The whistleblower is waiting for us.” She picked up her bag. “I promise you. Dinner is on me when we are done.”