Day Labor

Day Labor

By M.J. Conrad

Copyright 2011 Marjorie Conrad

Published by M.J. Conrad at Smashwords

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Design: Patrick Kearney

Photography: M.J. Conrad

Dedication

I’d like to dedicate this book to the young man who was standing outside of Carl’s Jr. the day I drove by and saw him with his sign. I don’t know who he is but he planted the seed into my overly fertile mind and the story you are about to read grew from that seed.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1 – 2005

Chapter 2 - 1980

Chapter 3 – 2005

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

Epilogue

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

About the Author

Other Books by Jena Galifany/M.J. Conrad

Chapter 1 – Present

Mark Langston stood in the doorway to the Chief of Detectives, Grant Langston's office. Grant took his time in responding to Mark's knock. Obviously annoyed, he tossed down his pen and leaned back in his large leather chair as Mark entered and closed the door.

What do you want? As usual, Grant showed no pleasure at seeing Mark.

Mark pulled an envelope from his pocket. He held it up, and crossed the plush carpet in the large office. As he reached the mahogany monster of a desk, he tossed it onto the surface, and watched it slid to a stop at the edge of the blotter. I want an explanation.

Grant didn't look at the envelope. His gaze locked instead on Mark, his jaw clenched and released before he spoke. Now that you're married, I wanted you to know that you will receive nothing from my estate in the event of my death. You have no part in my will. Just so you can let that new wife of yours know it.

Why would Beth care? She has her own money. She doesn't care about yours. Mark burned with anger at the insinuation. Beth had more money than Grant Langston ever dreamed of having.

So my name and my status didn't get you a bride? Congratulations. Grant commented in bored monotone.

Mark slammed his hand on the desk as he leaned toward his father. I've done everything I could my entire life to please you. I've worked my ass off through school and college to be the son you'd be proud of. I've solved several cases that were beyond anything even you've ever handled. Now, after one of my greatest successes, I get this letter. What kind of a father are you that you’d expend so much energy hating your son?

Grant carefully weighed his words before he let them spill from his lips. The kind of father who only has a daughter. He smirked, and rocked back in his chair, his trained eyes watching Mark's face for a reaction.

Mark felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. What are you saying? He knew damned well what was said but couldn't wrap his mind around the words, or believe them. Not after thirty-five years. Why wouldn't Grant, or at least his mother, have told him before?

You’re the fancy detective. Figure it out. Grant leaned his forearms on his desk, and continued before Mark could respond. Do you recall a local incident some thirty-six years ago. A criminal was shot during a home invasion. You probably read the case file when you studied local issues.

The man was into pornography and drugs. Mark thought back to the case. Rape, too, I believe.

Grant nodded and clapped his hands with sarcasm. He gets the gold star.

What? Rape?

Grant folded his hands on the desk. The man had taken a gun from the home office and attempted to shoot the homeowner when he walked in on him. It was a cut and dried case of self-defense.

What's that got to do with rape? Mark was confused. He saw by the look on Grant's face that the older man took pleasure in traveling the long road to where he was going.

What the report didn't say – because it was covered up – was that the bastard raped the man's wife. That woman was your mother and that bastard that I took great pleasure in shooting was your father. I don't think he left you anything in his will either.

Chapter 2 – 36 Years Past

Officer Grant Langston could hear the intruder's labored breathing. The bastard was in Langston’s own bedroom. Grant raised his 9mm, and felt the cold radiating from the barrel against his cheek as he crept toward the open door. He wanted to step into the room, take aim, and pull the trigger. There would be no need for another trial if the scum were dead. More than anything else, Grant wanted him dead. He'd put him away after two years of hard work. A glitch in the system turned him loose. This time, Grant would make sure there would be no mistakes.

As he moved through the dark hall, he heard the sound that chilled his blood. Oh, God. No. He squeezed his eyes closed, and listened to the muffled cry. His heart was in his throat as the sounds of animalistic lust fulfilled made its way to his ears. He waited for the sound to die. Grant felt sick, helpless, knowing there was nothing he could do. The bastard could have a gun to her head, a knife to her throat. He couldn’t take the chance on startling the attacker.

After what seemed an eternity, he heard muffled sobs and a mild laugh.

Every time he looks at you, he’ll remember me, the man's smooth voice promised. Every time.

Footfalls told Grant the man walked toward the window. Grant held the gun with both hands, and fought to suppress the rage that made his hands shake. He held the barrel against his face and forehead, blue steel along the side of his nose, the metal cold on his skin as he silently prayed God would grant him vengeance.

When the window frame creaked, Grant stepped into the room, and flicked on the light. He held the gun at arms-length, aimed straight at the intruder’s face.

Stewart!

Stewart turned to face Grant. His lips curled in an evil smile that showed even white teeth set in a richly tanned face. Stewart could have been a highly successful male model. Grant and most of the population of the town of Waring wondered why the man wasted his life dealing in drugs, child pornography and, his current hobby, rape, when he could have done so much with his life. Grant put him away three months ago on the child pornography charges. He couldn’t get any of the women to stand against Stewart in court on the rape charges. All four withdrew their accusations, balking at the identification of the villain.

Something went wrong after the sentencing and the man was set free. Now, with a smile on his face, he glared at Grant Langston, the officer who had worked so hard to put him away.

You’re too late, Grant. He nodded toward the bed. Grant followed his gaze, and knew what he would find. The same thing he had heard described four separate times in recent months. Michelle’s hands would be taped together at the wrists, and bound to the headboard. His trademark silver tape would also cover her mouth.

Stewart straightened his clothing, tucked in his shirt as with pride he surveyed his latest crime scene.

Bastard. Grant swept his gaze over his wife. Eyes clenched tight, Michelle rolled to her side, and tried to bury her face, wet with tears, into the pillow.

Stewart grinned. You can think of me from now on every time you take her. I’ll be thinking of her, too, for a long time. You’re a lucky man, Grant. She was the best one yet. He winked.

Grant pulled his attention from his wife. He stared daggers into the criminal. You won’t have time to think of her. Grant boomed out the words. His hand shook; his aim wavered.

Hey, just call the station and have them come get me. I won't give you any problems. I’m ready to go. Stewart pushed his hands into his pockets, stood with his feet apart, and rocked on his heels, grinning with confidence. I’ll even confess to this one for you, Buddy, if she has the nerve to identify me. I’ll take pride in telling the court and the media what an absolute pleasure your wife is.

A sour taste rose in the back of his throat. Grant swallowed hard. You’re not telling anyone anything. This never happened. You’re a dead man.

Now how would that look? His brows bunched in mock concern. You’d shoot an unarmed man? That won’t set well with the media. It’ll make you look like the vengeful vigilante you really are. Taking the law into your own hands, Officer Langston? That could make a nasty black mark on your future. It will keep you out of public office for the rest of your life. He laughed, the sound of his mirth pushing Grant beyond endurance.

I don’t think so. Grant reached behind his back, and pulled a service revolver from his belt. He tossed the weapon to Stewart, who instinctively caught it, curled it into his palm, and smiled at the fit for a moment. Realization blossomed on his face at what he'd done and he looked up. The smile melted as Grant pulled the trigger of the nine. Twice.

Stewart slammed against the beige wall. He left a splatter of red as he rebounded to the pale blue carpet. Grant took purposeful steps across the room, and kicked the limp body in the groin.

Grant snarled. Too bad you couldn’t be around to feel that. Grant retrieved the handgun from the carpet where it dropped from the criminal's lifeless hand. He fit it into Stewart’s grip. It would have Grant’s prints on it, too, but that was because Stewart apparently took it from Grant’s home office during the break-in. Grant used Stewart's hand to pull the trigger, and fired a slug into the wall above where he had entered the room. He formulated the story in his head. It was a clear case of self-defense.

Grant left his weapon on the dresser as he moved to the bedside to release Michelle. Once she was free and sitting on the bed beside him, he wrapped her with the blanket, and pulled her close to keep her from looking at the mess on the floor.

He spoke in a firm voice. You need to get cleaned up. He peeled the tape gently from her mouth.

What? Michelle's light brows furrowed, and she shook her head in confusion. What do you mean?

Grant pulled the tape carefully from her wrists. Take a shower. Get yourself dressed. Do it fast before anyone shows up.

But the report. The evidence.

The report will read that he broke in, took my spare revolver, and I shot an intruder in self-defense. That’s all.

Michelle’s eyes brimmed with tears again. He—raped—me. She choked on the words, her body wracked with the sobs she tried to contain.

He's dead. It makes no difference now. Do you want the whole town to know what he did to you? He stood, and pulled her to her feet. Her legs were weak as she leaned against her husband. She clung to his shirt as she fought to keep her balance. Grant pushed her toward the bathroom. Go.

Daddy?

Grant rushed into the hall. Lindsey Langston padded out of her room. Her curly dark hair was tousled and she rubbed half-closed eyes.

It’s all right, Baby. Grant scooped up the flannel night-gowned three-year old. You need to be in bed.

I hear a loud noise. Lindsey wrapped her arms around her father’s neck. It scared me.

It's nothing to worry about. Let’s get you back to bed.

Grant tucked the little girl in, and slipped a stuffed rabbit in beside her. You and bunny get some sleep. We’ll play tomorrow, okay?

I love you, Daddy. The small child reached upward, toward her father. He knelt beside the bed, and hugged his daughter.

I love you, too. He stroked her hair. In a few moments, Lindsey slept. Grant hurried from the room, and pulled the door closed.

He lifted the receiver on the bedside table, and heard the shower, followed by sirens.

Chapter 3 – Present

Grant grimaced at the memory. I’ll tell you what was not in the report on what happened that night. I got a call from Stewart. He said I’d better get home in a hurry. He had a surprise for me. When I got there, he was finished with your mother and heading out the window. I called him out, he turned with my extra service revolver and I shot him in self-defense. He shrugged as if it were nothing.

Mark felt weak as he sank onto one of the hard, wooden chairs situated before the huge desk. Why was I never told?

Your mother couldn't have survived the humiliation of the town knowing Stewart raped her. You know how they gossip. It was worse back then. We decided to forget it happened. Two months later we found out she was pregnant. When you were born without the Langston birthmark, I knew you were no son of mine. Grant shrugged again. I allowed you to carry my name but your mother was responsible for your upbringing. I saw that you had what you needed, gave you a good education and a career. But it doesn't entitle you to anything else. Lindsey gets it all.

You don't even know where she is. We haven't seen her since she turned eighteen.

That was your fault, too. She could never stand being around you. She got out soon as she could.

Mark knew that wasn't true but didn't know what to say. He stared at Grant for a few long moments while he tried to form a question or remark of some kind. Nothing seemed to be the right thing to say or ask. Finally, he settled on a question. Why didn't you get a paternity test?

"That would have raised suspicion, don't you think? I couldn't afford to have what happened come to light. It