Murder at Pride Lodge [A Kyle Callahan Mystery: 1] Read online

  That was how Kieran Stipling grew up, knowing he had killed his mother and that no prison term would ever be as harsh as the sentence his father handed down. He was hated by the man, ignored, berated and belittled. Clement never raised a hand to him, but the looks were cold enough to freeze the deepest recesses of space, the words sharp enough to bleed a man out on the spot. Kieran would never amount to anything, his father told him. He was no good, bad blood, and a gott-damned cripple to boot! The sooner he was grown and gone, the better. At the age of fifteen, Kieran granted his father’s only wish for him and left home; like his father, he never glanced back.

  Time passed, the road hardened, his father’s prediction—his curse?—came true as nothing became of his son, his it, losing job after job, hustling to survive with the assistance (for it could not be called kindness) of strange men. And now, twenty years later, at the age of thirty-five, the boy who would be no one, stained at birth and declared a failure from his first breath, was about to make his mark.

  Chapter Two

  A Rainy Night in Brooklyn

  It had been five years at least since Devin had worried about being followed. That’s how long he had been living as Devin 24/7. Denise Ellerton had ceased to exist—officially, legally, physically, psychologically, and every other way in which each person functions in the world. For Devin, she had ceased existing long before that, when he had realized as a teenager that he was not like other girls; that the simple reality of pronouns was different for him, as he thought of himself as “he” while everyone else insisted on calling him “she.” Tom-boyish Denise, odd Denise, rough-and-tumble Denise. He had wanted to correct them then, and even younger, as early as the third grade. “I’m not a girl,” he had wanted to say, but it wasn’t until he was in college that he fully understood what was going on with him, and when he finally had the distance from his family to do something about it.

  The sensation of being shadowed down a dark street was one of those things that belonged to Denise, to women. Devin had long been aware of the differences in experiences men had from women; to suggest there were no differences was to choose denial over reality. There were experiences unique to men, and experiences unique to women, as well as experiences unique to those who did not fit readily into either. Devin had become a man in every way possible. The transition had been made, the journey completed, and not since before it had he worried about being followed down his own Brooklyn street, late on a rainy Friday night. There was something different about this, too. It wasn’t random, as if he’d crossed paths with the wrong person in an accident of fate, as so many people did who found themselves the victims of crimes of opportunity. Devin had the very distinct and unsettling feeling that the man coming up slowly behind him had been there for awhile, had followed him off the R train, along the platform, up the stairs, and now, six blocks later, nearly to his apartment on Prospect Avenue.

  Devin was tall at five-eight, and worked out religiously at the local New York Athletic Club. He’d had a trainer for two years and always believed he could handle himself in a tight situation. Not that it happened often: he didn’t drink, didn’t stay out late unless he had a showing of his artwork or was attending one of a friend’s exhibits; he hadn’t dated in three years, and he was a night person, meaning he worked at night in his studio apartment and made every effort to be home by 7:00 pm, when he would start his routine of coffee-fueled creativity, putting together his latest collage or designing a multi-medium piece that he would then spend the next two or three weeks bringing to life.

  He was an attractive man, too, or so he’d been told enough times to believe. His natural height was complimented by a thin frame, short black hair he gelled back, a high, wide, forehead, moist brown eyes that had never been bothered by glasses, a thin but ready smile, and a nose that had once been broken in a fall, although he told everyone it had been a boxing match. It was the one lie he allowed himself. He just liked the idea of having a nose broken by a fist in a boxing glove. And it made the person who had once been Denise all but unrecognizable.

  He’d stayed out later then usual tonight and had been cursing his lapse in discipline when he first realized someone was behind him. This stretch of Prospect Avenue, unlike nearly all streets in neighboring Manhattan, was sparsely populated at night and the presence of other people was noticeable, especially other people who were shadowing you. He’d become aware of the man behind him not long after coming up the subway stairs but had thought nothing of it at the time. Then, a block later, he could hear the footsteps, as if he were in some B-movie thriller and a stalker was shortening the distance between then. Now, four blocks from the subway and just one from his apartment building, he became convinced he was the object of the man’s attention. Had it not been so worrying it would have been interesting: why would a strange man be following a reclusive artist down a deserted Brooklyn street on a rainy Friday night? He decided to ask the question directly. He adjusted his umbrella, with its caved-in side to his back, letting rain trickle down and soak his jacket, and he turned around to get a look at the man he now knew was his pursuer.

  As Devin turned to face him, the stranger stopped. He was only about thirty feet away now. Devin saw that he did not have an umbrella, but his face was hidden by a hoodie pulled down over it. In late April the air was still chilly at night and most people wore jackets, sweaters, other clothes that kept them warm in the cool darkness. Hoodies were especially popular, but also had the disconcerting effect of hiding the person’s face. It was only human nature to want to know who was beneath the hood, and why he was covering his face.

  The man made no attempt to pretend he was not following Devin. He didn’t keep walking with a turn this way or that; he didn’t cross the street and continue; he didn’t even keep coming, as someone would who really was just walking along the same street at the same time. He stopped. In the rain.

  “Who are you?” Devin shouted, tilting his umbrella back to show himself and improve his line of sight.

  The man just stood and, Devin assumed, stared. It was dark out and raining, and neither could see the other with any great clarity.

  Then the man began to walk toward him.

  Decision time. Devin could run for his apartment, which was only a block away; he could call for help, someone would throw open a window and call 911—or would they?—or he could do what he decided to do and stand his ground. He was tough, he trained two hours, three days a week; he was quick and fit and thin, and above all he was not Denise, not anymore. He had not endured the challenges of his life, the demands of simply being and becoming who he was, to flee in front of some punk on a Brooklyn street. He eased his shoulders back, loosened his grip on the umbrella to free his hands, and prepared for a fight.

  The closer the man got, the more familiar he looked. He was wearing jeans, red sneakers and the green hoodie, and although his face was hidden, something about his overall presence rang a bell. There was also the limp, if that was the right word, a way of walking that made it appear one leg was shorter than the other, but housed more in the pelvis, a sort of up and down motion, like a piston misfiring every time the man took a step. Devin noticed the emblem on his sweatshirt, a rainbow flag with wording underneath it he couldn’t read. He relaxed; it must be a neighbor after all, or someone coming to visit a neighbor. At the very least the stranger was gay and, by inference, non-threatening.

  But still he had not responded to Devin’s asking him who he was. And he had stopped, then kept coming. He was only about ten feet away now, and Devin put it all together: the walk, the sweatshirt, and finally, as the man drew close and eased his hood back—the face.

  “You!” Devin said, startled.

  “Yes, me,” the man replied, now face-to-face in the rain.

  “Why are you following me?” Devin said, still trying to piece this puzzle together in his mind. He knew the man, but not really, not in any but a passing way.

  “I’m following you, Devin,” the man replied, “becau
se I heard the whispers.”

  “The whispers? What whispers?”

  The man said nothing as he stepped forward and quickly slipped his hand out from the sweatshirt’s front pouch.

  Devin had no time to wonder what the glint of metal was, where it belonged in this picture, this rainy night in Brooklyn, before the knife blade entered between his ribs. Once, twice, a final total of sixteen times as the man he knew but didn’t know reached his free hand around Devin and pulled him close, stabbing and stabbing.

  Anyone watching would think two men were hugging each other goodbye, a familiar sight just about anywhere in New York City. But no one was watching. No one saw the man ease Devin, now unconscious and quickly bleeding to death, down to the sidewalk and carefully drape him there, then turn as easily as he’d come and walk away.

  “So much for art,” the man mumbled to himself, clutching the knife in his shirt pouch. He turned and began heading slowly back the way he’d come. He would not take the train, but instead walk, walk all night if he had to, over the Brooklyn Bridge and back into the darkness of Manhattan, pulling the night ever more tightly around himself as he thought about the next one.

  About the Author

  I’ll break habit here and write in the first person, since you can read my ‘Mark McNease has been writing since childhood’ bio in several other places. But it’s true: I first put pen to paper telling stories about a large stuffed toy dog I had coming to life. I could not have been more than eight years old.

  Writing is the one thing I have done consistently all my life, whether it was being expressed in short fiction, long fiction, poetry, prose, plays, or children’s television scripts. It is the one thing I have always felt compelled to do. After winning an Emmy in 2001 for Outstanding Children’s Program in the Chicago/Milwaukee market, I realized I had been chasing validation for many years, and that now I had it I could let that go and return to writing fiction for love and occasional profit. And here we are.

  ‘Pride and Perilous’ is the second book in the Pride Trilogy, to be completed with ‘Death by Pride’ (a serial killer strikes every Pride weekend in New York City and must be stopped before the East River flows with blood once again). Having discovered what a good team Kyle and Detective Linda make, the muse insisted I take a detour and write a Kyle Callahan Mystery Featuring Detective Linda, which is up next. I see these two couples having several adventures over the next few years, with murder and mayhem along the way.

  Thanks to anyone and everyone who has sat a spell with Kyle and the gang. I hope you’ll take another ride on the mystery train, meet a new traveler or two, and keep me getting up before the sun to bring you more! As for my personal life, I live in New York City with my partner Frank and our dwindling family of cats. We have a house in the rural New Jersey countryside where we plan to move permanently someday.

  Mark McNease

  www.markmcnease.com

  Table of Contents

  Prologue - Los Angeles

  Chapter 1 - Pride Lodge

  Chapter 2 - Cabin 6

  Chapter 3 - Room 202

  Chapter 4 - Lonely Blue Pool

  Chapter 5 - Room 202

  Chapter 6 - Cabin 6

  Chapter 7 - Detective Sikorsky

  Chapter 8 - Room 202

  Chapter 9 - The Show Goes On

  Chapter 10 - An Offhand Remark

  Chapter 11 - A Table for One

  Chapter 12 - The Master Suite

  Chapter 13 - All the Jack-O-Lanterns

  Chapter 14 - Stanley and Oliver

  Chapter 15 - Happiness is a Warm Gun

  Chapter 16 - The Master Suite

  Chapter 17 - An Intimate Encounter

  Chapter 18 - A Little Night Music

  Chapter 19 - Natural Causes

  Chapter 20 - Room 202

  Chapter 21 - The Past Catches Up

  Chapter 22 - Breakfast at Epiphany's

  Chapter 23 - A Late Start

  Chapter 24 - On the Ropes

  Chapter 25 - Cabin 6

  Chapter 26 - Teddy's Room

  Chapter 27 - Cabin 6

  Chapter 28 - Room 202

  Chapter 29 - The Master Suite

  Chapter 30 - Unhappy Halloween

  Chapter 31 - And the Winner Is . . .

  Chapter 32 - In the Rearview Mirror

  Chapter 33 - Check Out Time is 11:00 a.m.

  Excerpt

  About the Author