Sign of the Maker (Boston Crime Thriller Book 4) Read online

  Sign of the Maker

  Brian Shea

  THE SIGN OF THE MAKER

  Copyright © 2020 by Brian Shea.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Severn River Publishing

  www.SevernRiverPublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-64875-073-1 (Paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-64875-074-8 (Hardback)

  ISBN: 979-8-71998-664-7 (Hardback)

  Contents

  Also By Brian Shea

  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

  Join the Reader List

  You Might Also Enjoy…

  Thanks for Reading

  Next in Series

  COLD HARD TRUTH: Chapter 1

  Read Cold Hard Truth

  About the Author

  Also By Brian Shea

  The Nick Lawrence Series

  Kill List

  Pursuit of Justice

  Burning Truth

  Targeted Violence

  Murder 8

  The Boston Crime Thriller Series

  Murder Board

  Bleeding Blue

  The Penitent One

  Sign of the Maker

  Cold Hard Truth

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  Unkillable: A Nick Lawrence Short Story

  I dedicate this book to the victims of the Boston Marathon Bombing. To every police, fire, and medical personnel who rushed to the aid of the wounded, thank you for answering the call. To those who relentlessly hunted the terrorists responsible, your bravery in the face of true evil exemplifies the resolve needed to fight back against it. To the citizens of Boston, you stood your ground and exemplified a rare strength in the wake of those savage acts. You are the light in the darkness! You are all my heroes!

  Boston Strong!

  1

  The morning walk through the park had been exhilarating for several reasons, most importantly because he was approaching an end to the weeks of tireless effort. It would soon be over. He had time. Seven minutes, to be precise. And if he was anything, he was precise.

  He'd calculated the moment of time he now took to sit on the bench and watch the birds. His back was to Beacon Street, where many of Boston's wealthiest lived, looking down on the green of the Common. The exhaust from a passing bus momentarily tainted the park's air until a gust of wind cleared it away.

  He settled, pressing against the hardwood as the birds shuffled around his feet.

  Most people hated pigeons, seeing them as rats with wings. But he did not. He saw the subtle variances of gray in their wings to be just as dynamic and unique as a brightly colored toucan. To him, the birds were fearless. He respected their defiance in the way they held their ground against humans who scurried about in the overpopulated city. They didn't cower and fly off like the more skittish and delicate birds. Sure, they'd shift and adjust themselves, maybe give a quick flight to move out of the way of a jogger or cyclist or speed walker. But they always returned.

  He felt a connection to the winged creatures, mostly for their ability to hide in plain sight. The man on the bench was invisible too. He, like the pigeon, moved in and out among these people without even receiving a passing glance. By design, the soft, muted colors of his uninspired clothing added to his ability to blend into the backdrop. He was neither good-looking nor ugly. An average person carried an intrinsic anonymity. On the outside he was nothing but a waif of a man. Shorter than most. Smaller than most. But his mind was anything but small.

  Early in his youth, he'd found that exposing the true nature of his genius caused others to look at him differently. His parents had been the first to notice, and it intimidated them. As he grew, he learned even his enlightened professors were no match for his intelligence. In time, he'd become completely isolated from the outside world, left only with his thoughts and the birds he so adored.

  He watched as a large pigeon shoved a smaller one out of the way and nibbled at a bit of coffee cake on the ground. In the animal world, size mattered. The bigger or more powerful you were, the more you could take. But intelligence was the ultimate equalizer. He wouldn't interfere and help the smaller bird. Nobody had helped him when he needed it. Survival of the fittest.

  He observed the smaller bird. Its wing fluttered briefly, tapping the bigger pigeon’s tail feathers. As the bigger bird spun to see the source of its meal interruption, the smaller bird swooped in, snagged the bit of broken coffee cake, and flew away. And, just like that, intelligence had trumped the larger bird's position. The man smiled at the insignificant victory.

  He spent the next several minutes in deep thought, contemplating what lay ahead for the next twenty-two minutes.

  His life had always been a series of calculations and equations. Now, he crunched the numbers one last time, running through the schematics in his mind. Everything had to be perfect. Precision was critical. Connecting all the dots in his head, he affirmed everything was as it should be. Satisfied, he got up from the bench as a group of pigeons parted the way.

  He strolled down through the park toward Tremont Street to his morning's destination.

  The coffee shop wasn't full, which meant a seat would be available. In the three weeks he'd been coming here, he was unable to find a seat on only two occasions. He was glad that wouldn't be the case today.

  It was busier than it had been in recent weeks as summer's grip yielded its hold to the coming winter. During these last few weeks of cool temps, the local citizenry had ventured out en masse to enjoy the brisk mornings. Pedestrian foot traffic jammed the walkways as they scurried about their day.

  He walked to the counter, paid cash for a medium black coffee, and then walked toward a small table set along the wall. He grabbed a copy of USA Today from the rack before taking his seat.

  He perused the headlines but didn't read any of the articles. He'd already scoured the internet before leaving his small efficiency apartment on Boylston Street. He didn't read the national papers. His sources of information came from specialized access points far beyond the scope and investigative source abilities of even the bigge
st media conglomerates.

  The newsprint went up like a force field in front of him. He was invisible again, disappearing behind the gray rectangle of paper as he sipped the coffee.

  For a café that prided itself on its artisan ability to make the unique drinks listed on the menu, such as a half caf decaf with a twist of lemon, it had fallen short on the ability to make a simple cup of coffee.

  Considering himself a coffee connoisseur, he knew that the right blend of beans brewed to perfection required no sugar, no cream. What was in his cup was anything but. Although the aroma of the café was wonderfully sweet, the coffee tasted burnt and weak. It was barely above room temp, and he liked his piping hot regardless of time of year. Disappointed, he sipped at it with disdain. With each sip, his mood soured further.

  Peering up from the paper, he scanned the small space.

  A young mother in her early twenties was seated nearby with her son, who looked about three years old. His dirty-blond hair was a mangled sea of wild curls, and he was still in his pajamas. His mother had obviously not seen it important to dress her child before taking him out. She uncapped a chocolate milk and unsheathed a Nutri-Grain bar, sliding it over to him while she enjoyed an iced latte with a blueberry scone.

  It was only a matter of seconds before half of the milk ended up on the boy's pajama shirt, soaking the image of the Dabasaurus Rex, a cartooned Tyrannosaurus striking the popular dance move's recognizable pose. Absorbed in whatever message she was reading on her phone, the mother didn't seem to notice that her son was now wearing his chocolate milk. He wasn't close enough to see the screen, nor did he care enough to try.

  Laughter erupted at a table near the exit. Five people wearing neon yellow, form-fitting Lycra shirts and tight bike shorts were chuckling loudly at what one of the bikers had said. A pale, red-haired cyclist with a neatly groomed beard continued whatever story had lit the group afire. They were brightly colored, gregarious people calling attention to themselves in the café’s small, quiet setting. They were the toucans. As a pigeon, he felt nothing but disgust.

  The redhead continued his story with more fervor now that he had engaged the group. He was now telling it as if everyone in the café wanted to hear about somebody named Chris who had apparently ridden full speed into the open door of a box truck. Chris's lack of awareness and subsequent crash was a thing of pure comedy for these men.

  As the man sipped his lukewarm burnt coffee and scanned the group, he wondered if this Chris was among the brightly colored men. But on second thought, he realized he didn't care. None of their stories mattered. None of their lives mattered.

  The clock in his head ticked.

  The door opened, and a cool breeze accompanied a well-dressed business executive carrying a worn leather briefcase as he entered the shop. He looked at his watch as he approached the counter. He had an air of importance.

  If the others were toucans, this man was a peacock. Aside from the fancy suit, he wore an item of unique interest to a man who valued the power of time above all else: a Rolex Submariner watch. Did the wealthy man appreciate the value of the well-crafted timepiece? Probably not.

  Everything about the businessman exuded confidence. He wanted the world to know he was an important man, a powerful man. He moved through the small café with a purpose, never looking down or at the other patrons. They were beneath him.

  His presence commanded the others in the café to take notice. Even the laughter at the table of cyclists lowered in volume at his entrance.

  At the counter, he ordered his drink. The barista who was serving him asked if he'd like anything else. The man took out his phone, answering it and ignoring the question as he inserted the credit card into the machine in front of him. The rich man left no tip. He took the coffee and turned without a thank you, then took a seat on the opposite side of the café.

  The businessman was alone, but unlike the man with the newspaper, he was anything but invisible. Even the mother looked up from her phone to give him a once-over.

  But for all the things he hated about the businessman, there was one aspect he appreciated. At least he was punctual.

  Setting his coffee on the table, he looked at his watch. 9:47 a.m. Three minutes later than the businessman had been yesterday when he'd come into the café. Two minutes later than the day before. Based on the law of calculable averages, taking the last three weeks in which he had come here for his morning jolt, the businessman was one minute and thirty-seven seconds late but within the standard deviation of the established timeline.

  Time was everything. Time mattered. It was the one constant. Everybody moving around in this world was on an indeterminate timeline. Some cut short, some extended into a long life, but nobody had control. Well, almost nobody. He folded the paper and watched as the businessman berated the person on the other end of the phone. In the past three weeks, during most conversations he'd overheard, the suit had never once spoken a word of kindness. He'd never once said thank you.

  He knew men of power felt those sorts of things were beneath them. To offer an apology, to show another human being common decency, was a sign of weakness. He'd known this because he'd been on the other end of it for the better part of his life. But here, now, sitting in front of the lukewarm coffee, he held the power.

  Nobody in this room noticed him. He was a pigeon. He was invisible, but not for long.

  He stood without attracting even a glance from the other patrons. On his way out, he returned the newspaper to the rack. He dropped the nearly full cup of coffee into the circular trash hole at the sugar and cream station.

  He left, walking out into the brisk morning breeze as the city came to life. Nobody had noticed that he left his backpack tucked against the wall beside the creamer station. Nobody had cared. They were busy in their own worlds.

  Time was ticking, but none of them knew it.

  The businessman would stay for roughly ten minutes, as he did every day before heading back to his office.

  He looked at his watch. 9:54.

  The seconds ticked by as he watched the secondhand spin on the face of his Citizens watch, the one thing he'd taken from his father. The only piece of his past he carried with him.

  He was a block away when the second hand made its way around to the 12.

  The explosion rocked the street in front of the café, sending a ball of fire out toward the park. Screams filled the air and pigeons took flight as he disappeared into the crowd of panicked bystanders.

  Time was the truest source of power. And for the six people on his list, he controlled it completely.

  2

  Kelly sprinted forward with a sudden burst of energy, pushing himself past the wall, his breathing syncing with each step. The red-stone arched bay doors to Boston's oldest firehouse, Engine 33 Ladder 15, were open. A handcrafted wood bench was between them and etched into the backing was the slogan: “Keep Running, Boston, Boston Strong.” The words were obscured by the big man sitting on the bench.

  Dale Hutchins smiled at Kelly. He knew him from the neighborhood. Even though they'd grown up on the same street, they'd picked different paths. Each served the city of Boston in equally important ways.

  "Looks like you’re suckin' wind, Kelly." Hutchins laughed while scooping up a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

  Kelly slowed to a jog to better address the muscular firefighter enjoying his breakfast while taking in the morning commuters. Nationwide, firefighters received favor above their law enforcement counterparts. In Boston, that love showered down on them, especially since the release of the calendar fundraiser. A shirtless Hutchins was featured on the cover, making him a welcome surprise to the young women passing by on their way to work.

  "Don't you have a cat to go save," Kelly spouted between breaths.

  Hutchins set his plate of eggs atop a folded copy of the Herald on the ground beside him, then reached into a cardboard box on the other side of the bench and grabbed a calendar. He waved it in front of his smiling face. "You need a
copy? I'll even autograph it for you."

  "Nah. I'm good. Got enough toilet paper at my house."

  "See you tonight at the ball?"

  "Gonna try."

  A couple girls giggled when they passed. Hardly giving Kelly a second glance, they ogled over Hutchins and stopped in front of him. He stood, grabbing a stack of calendars in his enormous hands, and smirked. "Duty calls."

  Kelly picked up his pace from a slow jog to a hard run to close the gap with Barnes. "Tend to your fans, Hutch. I'll catch you tonight."

  "Got a date?"

  "She's getting away from me as we speak." Kelly pointed at Barnes.

  Hutchins gave a nod of approval as Kelly ran to catch up with her.

  "Slow down," Kelly wheezed. Barnes slowed her relentless pace and Kelly pulled alongside her.

  "How do you know Hutch?" she asked.

  "Better question: how do you know Hutch?" Kelly laughed, hoping to mask his jealousy.

  "The bombing. He was there on scene, working extra duty near the finish line when it detonated. We worked together to help triage the victims and provide aid," Barnes said between effortless breaths. "Good guy. Seems like, at least."